The War Within
by Mariole
Summary: Death is expected as part of war, but some mysterious deaths at the 4077th send Margaret and Hawkeye investigating. *COMPLETE*
1. Small Hours

**"The Small-Scope War"**

Disclaimer: Twentieth Century Fox owns the copyright to the M*A*S*H Series and characters. This story was created solely for the amusement of the author and any other fans out there. 

**1. Small Hours**

Hawkeye scribbled a final note on the patient file, then tossed it onto the desk at the duty nurse's station. He yawned and cast an eye over post-op. The patients, all three of them, were asleep -- not unusual behavior for three-thirty in the morning. At the far end of the room, working in the glow of a single lamp, Bigelow quietly restocked the supply cabinet. Hawkeye tucked his hands into his lab coat pockets, then sauntered down the aisle toward her. 

Coming up behind her, he clasped his arms loosely around her waist. He nuzzled her hair playfully. "Can I help with anything?"

Bigelow tipped her head back to give him a sardonic smile. "Ask me that again tomorrow."

Hawkeye grinned. There were many things that he appreciated about his relationship with Bigelow, not least of which was that she didn't back away from the physical, when it suited her. He nibbled her ear. "What's wrong with tonight?"

Bigelow leaned back against him, accepting his attention even while loosely placing her hands over his own -- no doubt to keep them from roaming. "Tonight, Doctor," she said quietly, "you and I are on duty for another two hours."

"What could happen in two hours? All we have are a couple of compound fractures and one perforated chest, all of whom are resting comfortably in bed." He left a trail of kisses down the side of her neck. "We should take the hint."

Bigelow lifted her chin so he could kiss her throat. "You'll be able to add a couple of broken jaws to that list if Major Houlihan comes in here, and finds that we've deserted our post."

"Uh uh." Hawkeye obligingly ran his lips over her soft skin. "She won't stir for another hour at least."

Bigelow turned within his arms to face him. "And how do you know that?"

"Because it's Thursday. Every Thursday night, she and Frank give each other their twenty-thousand mile checkup." He left a trail of kisses along her jawline. "Frank always traipses in around four-thirty, so that none of the first-shift personnel who eat breakfast at five will suspect anything."

"Twenty thousand miles." She moved her head to catch his lips. "I can never seem to make it past fifteen."

Hawkeye murmured against her mouth, "You'd better pull into a service station promptly."

"Mmm. I'd love to. But isn't your other roomie there?"

"He's asleep." Hawkeye planted kisses on her between words. "BJ always sleeps until he wakes up. Every night. Consistently."

Bigelow returned the kiss, then gently disengaged. "Much as I'd love to witness that first hand, you and I have got to work."

"I thought we worked pretty well together last night."

"_Last night_ we were both off duty. Tonight --"

The chest case in bed two moaned. Hawkeye cast a glance his way. "I guess duty calls. Or in this case, groans." 

Hurriedly he walked toward the bed. The corporal's wounds had penetrated the pleura, and the knife responsible hadn't been particularly clean. Hawkeye rechecked his patient's vital signs. The penicillin IV was supposed to handle the infection, but Hawkeye cleaned the wounds again, and Bigelow applied ice packs against the fever. At length the man seemed calmer, but his face was strained and gray.

"He's still not comfortable," Bigelow said. "Shall I give him another shot?"

Hawkeye tipped his head toward the patient record, hanging suspended on a clipboard at the end of the bed. "When's he next due for morphine?"

Bigelow checked the chart. "Not for another half hour."

"Better wait a few minutes, then." 

Hawkeye heard a footstep, and glanced toward the door. A tall, blond soldier stood just within the white sheet hung to block the draft from the door. His fatigues were dirty, and he had more smudges on his face. He looked expressionlessly toward the man Hawkeye and Bigelow were working on.

Hawkeye stood in surprise. "Can I help you?"

The man took a tentative step forward. For a big guy, he seemed awfully hesitant. He nodded towards the patient. "How's he doing?"

Hawkeye approached so they could talk quietly. "I'm Dr. Pierce. And you are?"

"Sergeant High," the man replied, or some name to that effect. He tried to lean around Hawkeye to better see the man in the bed. 

Hawkeye asked, "I take it that Corporal Randall is a buddy of yours -- unless you make it a standing practice to visit hospitals in the middle of the night."

The sergeant gave up trying to see past Hawkeye, and focused his blue eyes on the doctor. He would have been a good looking man, but something, perhaps his anxiety, gave Hawkeye an uneasy feeling. "Can you tell me how bad he is?" the man asked.

"He's holding his own," Hawkeye assured him. "But if you're waiting for him to wake up, you could be here a while. We're going to give him a shot in a few minutes. I expect he'll sleep most of the day."

High nodded solemnly. "Has he said anything?"

"Not since they brought him in. But that's not uncommon when a person's unconscious."

"I see." The sergeant sighed and looked at his boots.

Hawkeye put a hand to his shoulder. "Come on, Sergeant. I'll buy you a cup of coffee. Breakfast isn't for another hour yet."

Sergeant High backed away. "No, thanks. I've got to get back to my unit."

The man's edginess triggered Hawkeye's suspicion. He narrowed his eyes. "Does your CO know you're here?"

High shuffled his feet, then met Hawkeye's gaze with a lopsided grin. "Not exactly."

"All right, Sergeant, I won't hold you up. But don't worry. Randall is going to be okay."

High met Hawkeye's eyes. "You're sure?"

"Positive," Hawkeye said, with all the confidence he could convey. "He's had a rough time, and he's not out of the woods. But he's coming into the clear."

High nodded. "Thanks, Doc."

"My pleasure. Now get back to where you belong, before we both get in trouble."

The man nodded, then stepped behind the curtain. It fluttered a little as the door behind it invisibly opened and shut. Hawkeye stretched, then turned back wearily. Bigelow was still hovering over Randall. He crossed over to her. His amorous thoughts were losing the battle to the bulletins his overall fatigue was issuing to his eyelids. OR duty, immediately followed by his turn at night shift, had made the day a little too long.

"How's he doing?" he asked.

"Better."

"Good." Hawkeye stood a moment tiredly. "Lieutenant," he said, "could you use a cup of coffee?"

"Not unless I want to stay awake."

Hawkeye smiled. "I'll take that as a yes." He turned toward the door.

"Cream, no sugar," Bigelow called after him.

Hawkeye threw her a smile over his shoulder. "Yes, Lieutenant."

He recrossed post-op, pushed back the white sheet, and stepped out into the darkened compound. He released the door gently behind him, looking around the slumbering complex. A faint clanging of pots sounded from within the mess tent, but the only smell in the air was the stale odor of last night's congealed gravy a la carte. The scent of this morning's latest offense to the taste buds had yet to rise in a nauseating plume over the compound.

A soft shuffle sounded behind him. Hawkeye turned, but saw nothing but the door of post-op settling shut. He stared at it a moment, wondering if Bigelow had for some reason started to follow him out. The door didn't budge. Hawkeye shrugged, and crossed to the mess tent. 

The coffee in the big urn had been sitting all night -- or possibly longer, judging from its consistency. Hawkeye curled a lip as he filled his mug. Cautiously he sniffed the contents, then took an experimental sip. He screwed his eyes shut as the bitter taste hit him. To make matters worse, it wasn't even hot. Letting his tongue hang out of his mouth, Hawkeye pushed through the side door and tossed the contents into the bushes. If he tried dumping this into the garbage can, it would probably eat a hole through the metal. 

He had just set his empty mug in the dish bin when Goldman rushed up to him. A rifle was slung across his back; clearly he'd been standing sentry duty. The private pulled up breathlessly. "Doc, you gotta come. There's trouble in post-op."

Adrenalin brought Hawkeye back to full alert. "What happened?"

"One of the patients is in trouble. The lieutenant said to get you right away."

Hawkeye sprinted for the door, Goldman at his heels. He pushed his way past the white sheet to see Bigelow bending over Randall. She turned a desperate look in his direction. "Doctor, I just gave him a shot of morphine. Now he's barely breathing."

Hawkeye ran for the side of the bed. Rapidly he checked Randall's vital signs. He murmured his findings to Bigelow. "Respiration depressed, skin clammy, lips blue. Pupils --" Hawkeye peeled back the man's eyelid. The pupil had shrunk to a pinpoint. "Nurse, bring me a syringe of Naline, stat."

Bigelow ran for the supply cabinet at the far end of the room. By now the bustle in the room had awakened the other two patients. They stirred and began to look around.

Goldman hovered near Hawkeye anxiously. "What is it?"

Hawkeye swiftly donned his stethoscope and checked Randall's heartbeat. Irregular. He removed the stethoscope from his ears and started to apply a pressure cuff. "It looks like an overdose. I've just never seen anything this severe before." He glanced up at Goldman. "Will you bring Dr. Hunnicutt?"

"Right away, sir!" Goldman bolted from the room.

Bigelow hurried back with a prepared syringe. Hawkeye injected it into the IV line already inserted into Randall's wrist. "Monitor his pressure," Hawkeye told her.

While Bigelow worked the sphygmomanometer, Hawkeye rechecked the vitals. The pupils were still shrunken to pinpoints, and the heart palpitations had gotten worse. Suddenly Randall's breathing failed.

"Ambu bag," Hawkeye ordered. 

Bigelow fetched one from the code tray. "Here, Doctor."

Hawkeye positioned it over Randall's face. He squeezed the bag to pump air into Randall's lungs. "What's his pressure?"

"Seventy over forty."

Hawkeye shook his head at the low numbers. "The Naline should be working by now." He deliberated, pumping the bag again. "Bring me another dose."

"Yes, sir." Bigelow dashed back to the supply cabinet.

At that moment, BJ entered the ward. He was fully dressed, to Hawkeye's surprise. Goldman had been gone barely long enough to wake him. 

BJ held back as Bigelow scurried into the aisle in front of him, then followed her to Randall's bed. "What happened?"

"Overdose, I think," Hawkeye said.

"How could that be?" Bigelow asked. "I gave him the usual amount."

"Check the bottle?" BJ asked.

Hawkeye mentally kicked himself. He should have done that first. "Yeah, take a look."

"Here it is." Bigelow snatched it up from where it was sitting at the duty nurse's station.

BJ examined the label, while Bigelow got back on the pressure cuff.

"Well?" said Hawkeye. "Are you going to keep me in suspense?"

BJ shrugged. "It's morphine, all right. Standard dosage."

"Well, he's not responding," Hawkeye said. "Bigelow, you have that Naline?"

She removed the syringe from her coat pocket. "Here, Doctor."

BJ intercepted the syringe. "I've got it." He injected it into the tube.

Randall's body bucked. Muscles twitched and his face grimaced. "Convulsion," Hawkeye said. 

"I'm on it," BJ said. He pinioned Randall's arms, holding him down. Hawkeye removed the Ambu bag while Bigelow handed him a tongue depressor. Hawkeye struggled to force it between Randall's teeth.

"Phenobarb?" BJ asked.

"I'd rather not give him another sedative," Hawkeye answered. "He's barely breathing as it is."

The convulsions intensified, then suddenly stopped. Hawkeye put his stethoscope back on and listened. "He's seized." He ripped open the corporal's shirt. "Adrenalin, stat." 

Bigelow raced for the code tray.

"Start compressions?" BJ asked.

"Not if I can help it. His chest wounds won't take the pressure."

Bigelow handed Hawkeye a syringe, which he injected directly into the chest. He listened again. Nothing. "More adrenalin." 

Bigelow had a second syringe ready. "Prepared."

Hawkeye injected another dose. Still nothing. He removed the stethoscope. "Bigelow, get the back board. BJ, want to bag him?"

While Hawkeye lifted Randall's limp body so Bigelow could place the back board behind him, BJ retrieved the Ambu bag which Hawkeye had set aside. When Hawkeye lay Randall back down, he positioned the cup over the patient's face. "Ready."

Hawkeye began compressions, cringing at the idea of what his actions were doing to Randall's wounds. He was aware of the other patients watching him from across the room. This was the thing he hated most about post-op, the public display of a possible death. 

Blood welled up against Hawkeye's palms, driven out of the corporal's body by the force of his exertions. Hawkeye risked a glance at Bigelow, who was back on the cuff. "Anything?" he asked.

Solemnly she shook her head. 

BJ looked grim. "Are we doing any good?" he asked quietly.

Hawkeye did a few more compressions, then stopped. He leaned over Randall's body, breathing heavily. "No." He sank back. "It's useless. He's gone." He wiped his palms against a clean area of Randall's bandages. Those in the center of his chest were stained vividly red. Hawkeye was certain he'd cracked a couple of ribs as well -- not that those wounds would complicate matters now.

Bigelow's lovely brown eyes grew moist with her distress. "Doctor, I only gave him his prescribed medication."

"You were stocking the cabinet," said Hawkeye. "Was this bottle from the new batch?"

Her eyes flashed. "Yes, it was."

Hawkeye slowly rose. He kept his voice low. "It's possible that we've got a bad batch of morphine here. Remove every bottle that might be from the same batch as this. Empty the supply cabinet if you have to. I want all new drugs in there, until we clear this up."

"Right away, Doctor." Bigelow blinked her eyes, turning away. Hawkeye knew that she was upset over the possibility of being the unwitting agent of a man's death. However, he hoped that his words would help to shift some of the responsibility from her to the dispensary. If the morphine suspension had been badly prepared, that's where the blame really lay. 

BJ had drawn the blanket over the dead man. The other two patients looked over with anxious eyes. BJ came up just behind Hawkeye. "Do you want me to get a couple of stretcher bearers?"

"I'll do it." Hawkeye indicated his blood-smeared hands. "I need to wash this off. Will you reassure our other patients that this isn't spreading?"

BJ looked uncertain. "You're positive that it's the morphine?"

"It's the most likely cause. I'll have the lab check it out. In the meantime, make sure our patients get only drugs that have already been safely used or tested."

"I'll update their charts."

"Thanks." 

Hawkeye stepped into the compound. He had barely time to look around before Goldman approached him. He must have been hanging around the door.

"Captain, what happened?"

Hawkeye felt the bitterness of defeat, worse than the stale mouthful of coffee that still coated his tongue. "We couldn't save him. Can you get a couple of corpsmen to move the body out of post-op?"

Goldman nodded, subdued. "Yes, sir."

Wearily Hawkeye turned. It wasn't as if they never lost patients, but fortunately the event was rare enough to make it unusual. Hawkeye rounded the outside of the building, heading for the scrub room. He'd be damned if he'd walk back through post-op with his bloodstained hands. 

The mess tent exuded its familiar reek. A few first-shift personnel drifted toward it, or toward the showers. Hawkeye noticed Frank Burns, dressed in his robe with his shaving kit in hand, walking toward the showers. Hawkeye checked his watch. It was a quarter to five. If nothing else, the man was consistent.

Hawkeye completed his circuit to the scrub room. He flipped on one of the faucets and doused his hands. Randall's blood tinged the water, swirling around the sink in reddish circles until it eventually disappeared. How quickly we move on from death, Hawkeye thought, soaping his hands. A little scrub, a little rinse, and the remainder of a man's existence just disappears down the drain. 

He flipped the water off with an elbow, holding up his hands out of habit. He was getting morbid. Time to get some sleep.

He dried his hands and rolled down his sleeves. This time he walked through the center of the building to reach post-op. He still had another half hour to endure before he went off shift. At the very least, he had to give BJ a chance to eat breakfast before his shift started, if he cared to.

When he re-entered the room, he saw that Randall's body had been removed. The final evidence of death was now eliminated -- not that that had made their remaining patients any less skittish. Any soldier expects death on the battlefield, but sudden death in a quiet hospital room was a little too unfair. Hawkeye remembered Randall's injuries well. Knife wounds, received up close and personal. How cruel Fate could be, to spare a man from hand-to-hand combat, only to take him in the end with the prick of a needle.

Kellye was busy restocking the supply cabinet. BJ was updating the patients' charts. Hawkeye moved toward him, when the white sheet over the door twitched back, and Margaret Houlihan, dressed in her fatigues, entered the room.

Her icy blue eyes found him instantly. She strode quickly toward him.

"I've just seen Bigelow," she said in a low voice. "What's this I hear about a bad batch of morphine?"

"That's our best guess for now," said Hawkeye. "We ought to do ourselves a favor and check every bottle. Who have you got in dispensary?"

"Lieutenant Carlyle."

"Carlyle." Hawkeye brought her to mind. Blonde hair, green eyes, a little on the thin side. She seemed too meek for his usual tastes. "She's new, isn't she?"

"She's fully qualified in pharmaceuticals," Margaret said snippily. "You can rest assured that she didn't have anything to do with this foul-up."

Hawkeye sighed inwardly. He tried to appreciate the good things about Margaret -- her dedication to medicine, her competence and concern for her patients. But he could never warm up to her as long as her self-defensiveness and blind endorsement of the military kept interfering. It even managed to get in the way of him appreciating her physical attributes, which ordinarily would be hard to overlook.

"I'm not accusing anybody," Hawkeye said. "I just want to get to the bottom of this. So will Colonel Potter. I think you'd better put a couple of people in the lab and have them double-check each other's results, just to make sure."

Margaret wasn't so hidebound that she couldn't recognize good sense -- unlike her lover Frank Burns. What she ever saw in him was beyond Hawkeye's comprehension.

"All right. I'll get Wilson to assist her."

"Thank you, Major." 

"You're welcome, Captain." She turned away to join Kellye at the supply cabinet. The two of them held a muted conference.

Hawkeye approached BJ. "Why don't you take off, Beej?" he said. "Another half hour, and you're on shift."

BJ shook his head. "I couldn't sleep now."

"I was thinking of eating."

"Surely things aren't that bad." BJ shot him a weak grin.

Hawkeye smiled back. "Not me, you. Don't you want breakfast?"

"I'd love some." BJ made another notation on the chart. "Unfortunately, I have no idea where to find any."

Hawkeye shook his head, too tired to chuckle aloud. He rubbed his eyes.

Beej touched his arm. "Hey, Hawk. You've had a rough shift. Why don't you call it a night?"

Hawkeye straightened, then nodded gratefully. "Thanks, Beej."

"Don't trip over your own feet on the way out."

"No promises."

Hawkeye let himself out the side door again. What a difference fifteen minutes made. Already half a dozen people were in the mess tent, with more crossing the compound. The sky had lightened to gray, but the sun was still behind the mountains. Hawkeye turned toward the Swamp.

A feminine scream pierced the air. Hawkeye whirled, his heart in his throat. The cry had come from somewhere behind the central building. The woman screamed again, her voice reverberating with horror.

Hawkeye dashed toward the sound. Behind him, people began to pour out of the mess tent. Hawkeye rounded the hospital's metal side, then pulled up short.

There was nothing behind the main building except a couple of lone trees, standing sentinel before the rocky feet of the foothills. Directly before the largest of these was a nurse -- Gwen Wilson, it looked like, in the uncertain light. A man stood next to her, the narrow spike of a rifle barrel poking up behind his back. Goldman. Gwen appeared to be huddled next to him, shielding her eyes from the tree.

No, from what was in the tree. Hawkeye felt his mouth go dry. Hesitantly he stepped forward, flanked by his campmates who had come up around him while he'd paused. Slowly he approached, while the murmuring grew all around him. 

A woman's body was suspended from one of the branches. She was dressed in fatigues, making her hard to spot against the foliage in the dim light. As Hawkeye drew near, he could see that she was hanging by a rope around her neck. Her eyes were opened in seeming astonishment, her limp blonde hair awry. 

It was Lieutenant Carlyle. Hawkeye reached up a hand to touch her ankle. The skin was cool. She must have been hanging for a while.

Hawkeye's voice was husky. "Goldman," he asked. "Do you have a knife?"

Goldman held a shuddering Gwen against him with one arm. With his free hand he unsnapped the all-purpose knife from his belt that many of the men wore on duty. 

Hawkeye took it, then looked over his shoulder. Two dozen stricken faces looked back at him in the pre-dawn gloom. "Carter, Elroy," he said, "will you give me a hand?"

Two of the corpsmen stepped forward. Hawkeye stuck the knife in his belt, and began to climb the tree.


	2. Small Minds

**2. Small Minds**

"Suicide!" Margaret Houlihan nearly stamped her foot. "Colonel, I won't accept that. Not from one of my girls!"

Colonel Potter came around his desk to face her. Although he was a vast improvement over their last commanding officer, Potter was still a little too soft, in Margaret's opinion. Everyone knew that there was "army" and there was "Army." To Margaret's annoyance, Potter was too willing to accommodate the little "a" in his ranks, to the detriment of the unit.

Potter seated himself on the edge of his desk. "I don't know what you want me to say, Major. I looked in on the postmortem myself. All the evidence points to death by asphyxiation. We have what could be construed as a suicide note, and we have a possible motive in that Lieutenant Carlyle almost certainly prepared the morphine that was directly responsible for Corporal Randall's death."

Margaret had seen the plaintive note that Ellie Carlyle had written on the night of her death. It was addressed to Gwen Wilson, her tentmate and closest friend at the 4077th. "Dear Gwen: It's so hard to tell you this. I'm afraid I've badly let down your trust in me. I'm sorry. Tonight, I'm going to set matters right. If I don't see you again, forgive me. Your friend, Ellie."

Lieutenant Wilson had found the letter sticking out from under Carlyle's pillow, after Margaret had detailed Bigelow to assist her with clearing out Carlyle's things. Margaret lowered her voice. "I know it looks bad, Colonel. But I'm telling you, Lieutenant Carlyle would not kill herself. No self-respecting nurse would."

Potter met her eyes steadily. She had to hand it to the old man; he was hard to fluster. "What's your explanation then, Major? It's impossible to believe that Lieutenant Carlyle could have accidentally hanged herself. What does that leave -- murder?"

Margaret felt uncomfortable under that penetrating gaze. She lowered her gaze. "I suppose it would have to be."

"If it's murder, then we need a suspect. Is there anyone that you suspect, Major?"

Margaret straightened her back. "I wouldn't know, Colonel. I don't get involved in the girls' personal lives."

"Well, then, how about Lieutenant Wilson? Does she suspect anyone?"

"Lieutenant Wilson hasn't mentioned any suspicions to me. She appeared to accept the suicide theory based on what she'd seen, but she's probably still in shock."

"But you're not," said Potter. "If you can show me some evidence that points to this as a murder, I'd be eager to see it."

Margaret turned aside, thinking. "I don't have any evidence yet, Colonel. But some things don't make sense."

"Such as?" Potter persisted.

"The timing, for one thing. Private Goldman, who was on sentry duty, doesn't recall seeing Lieutenant Carlyle anywhere around post-op at the time of the incident. If we're assuming that Corporal Randall's death influenced her decision to kill herself, she would have had to find out about it by listening at the door without anyone seeing her, then return to her tent to write the note, then run off to find a rope so she could hang herself in the few remaining minutes before it became fully light. That seems like an awfully quick execution of such an irreversible decision."

Potter rose. "Major, if you want to pursue this further, you have my permission to do so. But I remind you, the MPs were satisfied that the preliminary evidence pointed to suicide. Your only argument so far is that you don't think that any nurse would commit suicide, including this young woman who's only been assigned to the 4077th for a few weeks and whom you admit you hardly know. Unless you can uncover some evidence to the contrary, I can't see pushing this investigation any farther."

Margaret held up her chin. "Very well, sir. Since I have your permission to continue the investigation on my own, I intend to do so. But may I remind you that the Military Police are not trained detectives. It's possible that a homicide expert would uncover irregularities in Lieutenant Carlyle's death that an untrained person could easily miss."

"Major, the only `homicide experts' around here are the ones who carry guns. If you like, I could call in the local police. They might have some relevant experience. But I'd need a little more to go on before I'd feel comfortable taking that step."

"All right, Colonel. I'll see that you get it." 

"Good luck, Major. Dismissed."

Margaret exited smartly, ignoring Radar's curious stare as she marched through the outer office. She let herself out onto the compound. The midday sun had dried the morning dew. The world smelled fresh and clean, and a bird sang. What an incongruous setting to walk into, considering her dismal thoughts.

Margaret really wished that Potter had called in someone with more authority than the local MPs. She knew that she might very well turn out to be no more capable of carrying out a murder investigation than some muscle-bound clod with a rifle. Still, she had to start somewhere. That place ought to be the lab, where her nurses were already sifting through yesterday's events for clues.

Kellye and Wilson were there. Morphine bottles were lined up in neat rows. Test tubes, clearly labeled, were arranged in racks before them.

Margaret entered with a firmness of step that she hoped would come across as professionalism, rather than the crabbiness that she feared was an all-too-common interpretation. Kellye looked merely sad, but Wilson's face showed a severe strain. "Ladies, report."

Kellye indicated the aligned columns of morphine bottles. "We've finished testing all the bottles that were in the supply cabinet, Major. All of these have the correct solution of one-quarter grain in suspension."

"Any impurities or irregularities?"

Wilson shook her head. "We aren't really set up to test for that, Major. We'll have to send the vials to Tokyo for a complete analysis."

"I see." Margaret was puzzled. "So how did Corporal Randall die of an overdose?"

Kellye indicated two bottles that had been set aside. "These two bottles were near the front of the supply cabinet. Bigelow used one of them when she administered the patient's medication."

"And?" Margaret prompted.

Wilson answered. "The solution is equivalent to four grains per prepared dose."

"Four grains!" Margaret was thunderstruck. Four grains was enough to ensure an overdose in anyone. "How could Lieutenant Carlyle accidentally prepare a solution sixteen times the regular strength?"

"I don't know, m'am," Wilson said despondently. "I would have thought it would be impossible."

Margaret considered Wilson's emotional stability, then decided to ask the question. "Wilson, you seemed closer to Lieutenant Carlyle than anyone else in camp --"

"Before you ask me, m'am," Wilson interrupted, "I've already said that I don't know why she killed herself. I know that she kept a lot of things to herself, but it's hard to accept that anyone would make that kind of decision."

Margaret didn't care to raise the homicide issue yet. Instead she said, "I know, Wilson. Let's set aside the suicide question for now. What I hoped you could tell me was anything you might have noticed about Lieutenant Carlyle's emotional state _before her ... decision."_

Margaret couldn't help but notice the covert glance that Wilson flashed at Kellye. Kellye looked sadder than ever, while Wilson swallowed and took a breath. "She seemed upset."

Margaret narrowed her eyes. "When?"

"The day before. She was ... agitated."

"Do you know why?" Margaret prompted.

"She didn't say. You know how quiet she was."

"And you didn't try to draw her out?"

Wilson shook her head, and a tear brimmed. "No, m'am. Maybe if I had --"

Margaret stood tall. "Lieutenant, you cannot blame yourself for something that you could not possibly have foreseen. You would be foolish to do so. Do you read me, Lieutenant?"

Unhappily Wilson nodded, but Margaret could almost see the guilt pressing on the young nurse like a weight. Much as she disliked this emotionalism, she had no choice but to pursue her line of questioning. Perhaps the need to think rationally would help Wilson regain some control. "Lieutenant, do you have any idea what Lieutenant Carlyle might have been upset about?"

Wilson evaded her eyes. "Not really, Major."

"Wilson," said Margaret sharply, "this is a critical matter. If you have any speculations, even unproven ones, I'd like to hear them."

Wilson met her eyes unhappily. "Ellie had problems off and on. I thought that last night was just more of the same."

"What kind of problems?" Margaret persisted.

"Man troubles, I thought."

Of course. How blind could she be? Margaret felt herself grow cold. "One of the doctors here?"

"No, m'am. He was a soldier with one of the units stationed nearby."

"Do you have a name?"

"I'm sorry, m'am. She only ever called him her `big fellow.'" 

"I see." Margaret felt a twinge of disgust. She always hoped that her nurses would conduct themselves with the dignity appropriate to their station, but this sounded like a typical tawdry affair. Funny, Lieutenant Carlyle hadn't struck her as the type. "Do you think her preoccupation with this ... man person could have led to her making a mistake in the morphine preparation?"

Wilson shrugged helplessly. "I don't understand how, Major. How could she prepare eighteen bottles perfectly, then overdose the final two? How could she so drastically alter the quantity without noticing it? And if she did remember doing it -- in her note she sounds so guilty -- why didn't she just pull the bottles she'd prepared and recheck them? Why go off and kill herself, instead of removing the bottles from the supply cabinet before Bigelow or anyone else could use them on another patient?"

Margaret nodded thoughtfully. Wilson's points were well taken. Still, she knew that Potter would want more than this to get a qualified investigator in here. After all, an upsetting affair with a boyfriend could have any number of outcomes, with only a remote chance of one of them leading to murder. Well, at least Carlyle's unhappy love life gave her another avenue to explore.

"Thank you, Wilson. You and Kellye carry on. Please document all your findings so I can take them back to Colonel Potter."

Wilson nodded unhappily. "Thank you, Major."

"Not at all."

Margaret headed out of the lab, momentarily buoyed by the discovery of the as-yet unknown boyfriend. But she needed more information, details that only a doctor could give. Therefore, next stop: post-op. 

She entered the ward from the outside door. Able was conferring with the doctor on duty at the other end of the aisle. They both looked up as she entered. BJ's innocent and clean-cut face greeted her with an expression of surprise. Margaret slowed fractionally. For some reason she had expected to find Pierce on duty, even though she now recalled that he had just worked the night shift. Still, Hunnicutt might know something. She approached the pair quietly.

The patients, one on each side of her, looked up curiously from where they were reading, idling away the time until the ambulance could ferry them to the 121st. No doubt they were eager to leave this hospital, with its alarming spate of unexpected deaths. Margaret couldn't blame them. She wondered which vehicle would reach the 4077th first: the ambulance, or the morgue wagon.

When she reached BJ's side, she said softly, "May I have a word with you, Doctor?"

"Of course. Nurse?"

Able took the clipboard. "I'll take care of it, Doctor."

"Thank you."

BJ followed Margaret into the little alcove between the duty station and the doors to Radar's office, behind the sheet hung as a screen. BJ kept his voice low. "What can I do for you, Major?"

"Did you assist with the postmortem on Lieutenant Carlyle?"

"Actually, Major, I didn't. I had my hands full trying to reassure our two patients here that they hadn't stumbled into a horror film."

"I know what you mean." Margaret winced, remembering how her own morning had been spent trying to calm down and organize her team of nurses. The shock had affected every one of them to some degree. The normally unflappable Bigelow was shaken to her core, and Wilson had been near hysterics. "So, Dr. Pierce conducted the autopsy?"

"I think Colonel Potter was with him some of the time."

Margaret muttered, "Yes, but the colonel still thinks it was suicide."

BJ looked at her sharply. "And you don't?"

Margaret flashed him a look, then turned away. "I need to find Pierce."

BJ caught her elbow. "Hold it, Major. Do you know something that the rest of us don't?"

Margaret gave him a steely look. "None of my nurses would kill themselves, Doctor. And they certainly wouldn't leave badly prepared morphine bottles around for one of their unsuspecting colleagues to inject into a patient." She shook off his hand. "Get out of my way, Captain."

She exited through Radar's office and out the front door of the hospital. The Swamp stood just across the way. Margaret put a neutral expression on her face as she approached. Major Burns would be there, probably catching up on his correspondence or journals. He was officially on duty for the second shift, but as their last two patients were being shipped out within the hour, it really only amounted to being on call. The thought of the unexpected free time kindled a spark of anticipation in her. Not that she would show it. She knew that Pierce and Hunnicutt suspected the true nature of her relationship with Frank, but she wouldn't give them the satisfaction of confirming it if she could help it.

The tent flaps were rolled up on Frank's side to let in the daylight and the breeze. She could see his head silhouetted against the mosquito netting as she approached. He was reading a book. As she neared, he looked up at the sound of her footsteps. She couldn't see his expression, but his shadowy outline shut the book, then rose to open the door for her. 

She met him at the door. He was smiling at her. How could he smile, when everyone else was so upset? Margaret pushed back her annoyance. No doubt he was just trying to cheer her up.

"Major," she greeted him.

"Major," he replied. He held up the book he'd been reading: the Bible. He flipped it open to the page he'd been on, marked by a finger. "My times are in Thy hand," he read, and bobbed his eyebrows at her.

Margaret stared. Sometimes Frank could be a little hard to follow. "What?"

"That's not all. Listen to this!" He flipped to another entry. "For you have been bought with a price; you are not your own."

Margaret didn't get it. "Frank, what are you trying to say?"

"Suicide!" he said, as if surprised that she didn't make the connection. "It's specifically forbidden by the Bible."

Margaret believed in the Bible, but these quotes seemed a little stretched to her. "Frank, I don't think that this really pertains to --"

"It couldn't be more obvious," Frank interrupted. He waved the book at her. "This is clearly saying that God has a purpose for every person's life. Suicide interferes with His plan. Therefore, anybody who'd kill themselves is somebody we're better off without!"

Margaret couldn't help but grit her teeth over such a callous attitude. She reined in her temper and said, "Have you run any of these references by Father Mulcahy?"

Frank pressed his lips together, an unfortunate habit of his that made them entirely disappear. "What do you expect from a priest? He absotively oozes compassion. It's enough to make you sick!"

Frank turned perfunctorily and went back inside. Margaret sighed, then followed him in. 

Pierce's side of the Swamp was dim, his cot a mass of rumpled blankets behind the lowered flaps of the tent. All she could see of Hawkeye himself was a tuft of black hair protruding from the pillow end of the cot. He was certainly asleep.

Frank had attempted to compose himself, and now turned to face her. "Well, then -- _Major_," he said. "How can I help you?"

Margaret made her voice crisply professional, just in case Pierce really wasn't asleep. "Actually, Major Burns, I'm here to see Captain Pierce."

Frank's face went slack. "What do you want with that nim-nelly?" Without waiting for a response, he barked, "Pierce!"

The body under the covers jumped, then the tuft of hair disappeared as Pierce pulled the covers over his head. 

Frank swatted Pierce's feet with his Bible. "Wake up, Captain!"

Pierce twitched under the covers, curling up as if seeking escape.

"Now, you slacker!" Frank yelled, making Margaret wince.

Pierce flung back the covers. His face was screwed up in annoyance, although his eyes were closed. "What is it, Frank?"

Frank put a sarcastic lilt into his voice. "Major Houlihan wants to speak to you."

"Oh." Pierce lay there a moment, then pulled the covers back over his face.

Frank's face went red. "Captain Pierce!"

Margaret put out a hand. "Just a moment, Major." She cleared her throat, then tried that reasonable tone that was sometimes effective with the troublesome draftee. "Captain Pierce, I wondered if I could discuss Lieutenant Carlyle's autopsy results with you."

The covers shifted, then slowly Captain Pierce's face reappeared. His hair was tousled, his skin pale, and his eyes rather bloodshot. Margaret reflected that, with all the events this morning, he must have been on duty for more than sixteen hours. For all his irritating habits, Pierce was a dedicated physician. Margaret put on a winsome smile and softened her voice in compensation for cutting into some of his precious off-duty time.

"I'm sorry to wake you," she said. "But Colonel Potter has given me permission to investigate further into Lieutenant Carlyle's death."

Pierce lay without moving, except for blinking his eyes. Margaret couldn't tell if he was thinking, or about to fall back asleep. "What do you want to know?" he said finally.

"I'm ... not really sure. I guess, just -- did you notice anything irregular about her death?"

"You mean, other than why a twenty-three year old nurse, who appears to be competent in every other way, decides to hang herself instead of simply checking the dosage of some morphine that she might have accidentally prepared incorrectly?"

Margaret smiled. Whatever Pierce's faults, and they were legion, he was quick-witted, she had to give him that. "Yes, Captain. That's the kind of thing I mean."

Pierce sat up groggily, long limbs akimbo, letting the blanket fall where it would. Absently he scratched his cheek, his fingernails grating on the stubble. "She definitely died of asphyxia," he said, "but I'm not so sure about the time of death." 

"In what way?"

"Both livor mortis and rigor had started to present. Based on that, she might have been there an hour or two before Wilson found her."

Margaret said carefully, "That would be _before Corporal Randall received his injection, wouldn't it?"_

"Ah, who cares!" Frank interjected. He walked toward his desk chair in a huff. "She was clearly deranged. Who needs a nutcase for a nurse?" He threw himself into the chair, and opened the Bible again.

Anger flared within Margaret's chest. Frank could be so irritating. She turned on him with her sharpest voice. "I'm trying to establish whether or not Lieutenant Carlyle was murdered!"

"Murdered?" Frank stared at her, open mouthed. "Honest Injun?"

Margaret eased up her attack. "Well, we don't know for certain, Frank. That's what I'm trying to find out." She turned back to find Pierce lost in thought. "Doctor?"

Pierce slowly lifted his eyes toward her. "So you doubt the suicide theory, too?"

Margaret was confused. "What do you mean, `too?' Didn't you put suicide on the death certificate?"

Pierce shook his head, clearly disturbed. "I left the manner of death undetermined."

"You did?" Margaret mentally backpedaled. "But, Colonel Potter gave me the impression that it was already decided."

"I'm not a forensic pathologist," he said. "Give me somebody whose heart is still beating, and I'll make as many pronouncements as you want. Once they pass the four-minute mark, I start feeling a little out of my depth."

"So you think it _could_ be murder."

"Major, I'd feel uncomfortable making that strong a statement. I was planning to leave it up to the ME in Seoul to make the final assessment. Now I'll definitely ask him to do a full autopsy, if you suspect possible foul play."

"You didn't do a complete autopsy?"

Pierce shook his head. "An external investigation only, plus x-rays and a blood sample for toxicology testing. I couldn't see cutting her up, based on what we found."

"You and Potter."

"Yeah," he said distractedly, his thoughts clearly elsewhere. "The findings were consistent enough, but little things kept bothering me."

"Such as the timing?" Margaret prompted.

"Well, that, but mostly her undershirt."

"Her ... undershirt?"

"It was bunched around her neck," Pierce explained. "The rope had pulled it tight, so it left strange marks. But I couldn't help wondering, if Lieutenant Carlyle was really going to hang herself, why she'd tuck a rumpled undershirt around the noose."

"Obviously," Frank butted in, "she didn't want to get rope burns."

"Then why rumple the undershirt?" said Margaret. "Why not wrap it around her throat smoothly?"

"Why wrap it around at all?" said Pierce. "It had to have interfered with the noose. If you're planning on hanging yourself, wouldn't you want to go about it efficiently, and not draw it out any more than you had to?"

"Well," challenged Margaret, "what do you think?"

Pierce sat straighter. "I think that Frank is right." 

Frank looked over at the unexpected compliment. "I am?"

Pierce nodded. "I think that this is a case where rope burns would be inadvisable."

Frank frowned. "What do you mean?"

"If we could have seen the rope burns clearly, then we might also have been able to see the marks of the hands that actually strangled her." Pierce threw back the covers, reaching for his bathrobe. 

"Major," he said, "would you like to view the body with me?"

Frank curled his lip. "Oh, this is morbid!"

"I meant Major Houlihan," Pierce said sharply. He met Margaret's eyes, his own filled with anxiety. "I must be an idiot," he said, "or asleep on my feet. The undershirt! Why didn't I think more about that before?"

Margaret smiled. "Possibly because you were asleep on your feet."

Pierce fumbled for his boots. "That's gracious of you." 

"Well, I think you're a bunch of dumb dodos." Frank turned his back on them. "Have fun with your _body."_

"Frank, you should be more interested in this," said Pierce, lacing his boots.

"It's all a wild goose chase, you'll see!" he retorted, then pretended to read his Bible. "Why?"

"Because if anyone gets away with murder around here, they'll certainly want to make you their next victim."

"Snot!" Frank yelled, then crossed his legs, holding up the Good Book.

Margaret sighed. Sometimes Frank could be such a disappointment.

Pierce stood and belted his robe, then combed his fingers through his hair. He favored her with one of his rare, companionable smiles. "Well, Major, let's see if this poor dead woman can tell us any tales."


	3. Small Signs

**3. Small Signs**

Margaret felt better as she walked across the compound with Dr. Pierce at her side. Somehow having Hawkeye enlisted in her cause made her feel as if the problems facing her weren't quite so insurmountable -- despite the fact that Pierce was currently doing his best to discourage her. 

"You know, I really haven't studied this stuff since the first year of med school," he was saying. "Pretty much everyone takes a course on forensics, but to really understand it, you have to specialize. In fact, the Board of Pathology is thinking about making it a separate certification altogether."

"Captain, I'm not expecting you to have all the answers. I just want to see if there is any evidence that _might_ point to murder. If so, then the colonel has promised me that he'll try to bring in some experts. _They'll_ be the ones to prove if Lieutenant Carlyle's death was a homicide or not."

"Well, thank goodness for that."

The office door opened, and their pathetic excuse for a company clerk tripped out into the sunshine. Margaret could see the smears on his glasses from all the way across the compound.

Uh, oh. The smeared lenses flashed in her direction, and Radar started to approach. "Oh, Captain Pierce!" he called.

Impatiently Margaret pulled up, while Radar intercepted Pierce. "The wagon's here, Hawk. Is the paperwork done?"

"That's `Captain,' Corporal," said Margaret tartly.

"Yes, sir, m'am," Radar responded. Margaret rolled her eyes.

"It's inside," said Pierce, "but they'll have to wait. Major Houlihan and I are going to have another look at the body."

Radar's eyes grew wide behind his glasses. "You mean, the real dead body of Lieutenant Carlyle's remains?" 

"Yes, _her_ real dead body." 

Pierce tried to speak lightly, but Margaret detected the defeat in his voice. Or maybe it was exhaustion; he couldn't have slept more than two hours out of the last twenty-four.

Radar put a hand over his mouth. "Oh, geez, sir, why are you gonna do that? I mean, didn't you do enough of that already today before earlier?"

"Major Houlihan has a few questions," Pierce said smoothly. "Could you make sure that nobody disturbs us?"

"Oh, yes, sir. I mean, no, sir. I mean, nobody will go in there for sure, especially not me -- well, not unless if you ordered me to, which I hope you're not gonna do on account of I don't sleep very well on the night after any day that I throw up on."

"Relax, Radar. You just stay outside and take care of things."

"Right," said the clerk, his relief evident. "I'll get a guard for the door, and sandwiches for the driver. Do you need anything else?"

Pierce shrugged. "If I do, I'll let you know."

"Right, Hawk."

"`Captain!'" said Margaret.

"Yes, sir, m'am. I sort of forget what I'm saying with the presence of death so close by as just behind that wall that I'm not gonna look at on account of what I know is behind it."

Margaret lifted her eyes. "Dismissed!"

Radar attempted a jittery salute, almost dropping his clipboard. Margaret marched away from him imperiously, pausing only to let Captain Pierce open the door for her.

The bodies were behind a screen at the back of the pre-op ward. Margaret was momentarily taken aback by the sight of _two body bags; her mind was so taken up with Lieutenant Carlyle that she kept forgetting about Corporal Randall. Pierce didn't pause. He approached the rightmost gurney and rolled it forward until it stood under an overhead light. He snapped on the bulb, then grimly unzipped the body bag._

"Her records are on the table," he said.

Margaret turned to the small table that had separated the two gurneys. Two folders lay there, their contents secured with an elastic band. The one for Lieutenant Carlyle lay on top. It was fastened to a larger manila folder that looked like it contained x-rays.

"You might as well get those out, too," said Pierce, apparently observing her movements even as he draped the body for examination. 

Margaret slid out the x-rays and posted them on the light box. They showed an anterior and lateral view of Lieutenant Carlyle's skull and upper torso.

"My notes are in her file," Pierce said. 

Margaret unsealed the folder and lifted out the autopsy notes. For a moment she was startled; Lieutenant Kellye's neat handwriting stared up at her. Then Margaret remembered that Kellye had assisted during the postmortem. She probably wrote up Dr. Pierce's results as he dictated them to her. Pierce's loopy signature decorated the bottom of the page.

"All right," said Pierce, reclaiming her attention. Margaret noticed that he had gloved himself for the examination. "Check that statement, and make sure I don't leave anything out."

"Yes, Doctor."

"Okay, we're looking for signs of a homicide. Let's start at the top." He pointed to each area of the body as he described it. "Pupils dilated, consistent with loss of consciousness and muscle relaxation before death. Scleral hemorrhage and petechiae detectable in the eyes and insides of the eyelids, indicative of traumatic strangulation. No petechiae detectable at the ligature furrow." He paused. "That could tell against my theory of her being strangled before she was hanged. If she was strangled, I'd expect some hemorrhaging to be visible. It might be worthwhile to do an internal investigation here, to see if any internal hemorrhaging is present."

So far Margaret had been standing back, hovering between the gurney and the light box showing the x-rays. Now Margaret approached the gurney. Prior to this, she had been intellectually aware of the loss of one of her nurses. She had felt the anger one might expect from such a loss -- the terrible waste of a young life, and the trauma that it had imposed on her nursing staff and the rest of the camp. But to see Lieutenant Carlyle actually lying there, her skin wan and mottled in death, her hair falling limply against the plastic of the body bag, gave Margaret's stomach a violent churn. This was a nurse, her nurse, someone to whom she had been giving orders only yesterday. It seemed incredibly wrong, and somehow indecent, for Margaret to be standing here viewing her injuries. She had never before felt the obscenity of death as forcefully as this, with Pierce's hands, protectively gloved, tactfully lifting back the sheet here and there to point at different areas of the young girl's naked body.

Margaret swallowed, then leaned closer to inspect the ligature furrow that Pierce was pointing to -- the area where the rope had constricted around Carlyle's throat. She saw a hodgepodge of bruises and skin mottling that the rope and undershirt had left about her nurse's neck. Margaret couldn't help wincing at the damage. Along the main furrow, Margaret noticed freckle-like spots. She pointed. "What are those?"

"Tardieu spots," said Pierce. "They're punctate hemorrhages that you often find in hanging cases. The pressure makes the blood vessels rupture. I'm actually more interested in this." He indicated the uneven mottling around Carlyle's throat.

"It looks like livor mortis," said Margaret. 

"Good diagnosis, Doctor," said Pierce. "The rope constricted her neck, so the blood pooled there after her heart stopped beating. The uneven nature of the discoloration is due to the folds in the undershirt. You can also see postmortem lividity in her hands and feet, which is certainly consistent with death by hanging."

"So what's troubling you?"

Pierce shrugged. "Well, livor mortis _can present as quickly as a half-hour after death, but it's still awfully fast timing. Bigelow injected Randall around 4 AM, and Wilson found Carlyle just after 5. If Randall's death is what set her off, Carlyle would have had to witness the death, write a note, find a rope, and hang herself all within half an hour for this effect to be visible at all."_

Margaret remembered making the same argument to Colonel Potter. She thought about what Lieutenant Wilson had told her about Carlyle being upset the day before. Had Carlyle killed herself for personal reasons without knowing that the morphine had been badly prepared? 

Pierce also seemed to have drifted off into a train of thought. "Find a rope," he murmured. He pointed at a box stacked with a couple of others beneath the small table. "Major, will you please open that uppermost box?"

"Of course." Margaret stooped and set it on the table, then lifted off the lid. Her heart nearly stopped. Inside was a double-knotted noose, and a rumpled undershirt.

Pierce came up behind her. "I wondered if you would -- Major?"

Margaret closed her eyes until her heartbeat steadied. She said in a harsh whisper, "You might have warned me."

"I'm sorry." Pierce actually did sound contrite. "Really. I said I was tired."

Margaret took a breath. "Why are you showing me this?"

"Does that look like one of our ropes?"

Margaret opened her eyes. The rope was slick olive drab, its interlocking strands glistening in sharp precision. It looked evil. If Margaret was going to hang herself, she'd probably want to put a buffer between her skin and that harsh-looking thing, too.

"It's the same color," she said, "but I don't recognize the pattern. It looks woven, not braided."

"That's what I thought. I want Radar to compare this with the other ropes we've got in the supply room."

"Why?"

"Lieutenant Carlyle had to get the rope from somewhere. If it didn't come from our supply room, where did she get it?"

Margaret shook her head. "You can't show this to Corporal O'Reilly. He'll faint."

Pierce hesitated. "What do you suggest?"

Margaret looked at the thing, coiled sinisterly in the box. "How about if I cut a short piece from the end? Then it won't look like anything but a piece of rope."

"All right."

Pierce removed his gloves, then knocked on the outside door and opened it. Private Peterson was standing outside. "Can I borrow your knife?" Pierce asked him. "And get Corporal O'Reilly, if you would."

"Yes, sir."

Pierce returned with the knife, and Margaret sawed a short piece from the end of the rope with the serrated edge of the blade. The fibers felt slick and oily against her hand. She handed it to Pierce, just as a tentative rapping came at the door.

"Hawkeye?" said Radar's muffled voice.

"One second," Pierce said, and opened the door. O'Reilly stood fidgeting just outside. "Radar, don't faint," he commanded.

Radar gulped. "Uh, I'll try not to, sir."

Pierce held out his hand. "I have here a teeny, tiny, itty-bitty, inoffensive piece of rope."

Even from across the room, Margaret could hear Radar gasp. "Not ... _the_ rope!"

"Radar," said Pierce impatiently, "it's just a piece of rope."

Margaret shuddered. How could Pierce say that, after handling that wicked thing himself? 

Radar's voice trembled. "Uh, what does the sir want me to do with this piece of rope before I fall down and throw up, which I warned you about earlier only you didn't listen to me?"

"Radar," said Pierce firmly, "I swear to you that this piece was cut from the middle of the strand and did not in any way touch any part of anyone's body except for mine and Major Houlihan's."

Radar looked woozy. "If you say so, sir."

"Good. Now, first, get out your handkerchief. There, now the rope won't touch your skin. Radar, are you listening?"

"Um, I think I'm fainting, sir."

"Can you listen without fainting?"

"I'll try, sir."

"Good. Now, this rope looks a little unusual to me. Could you compare it to other ropes we've got in camp and see if it matches anything?"

Radar gulped. "You want me to carry around this piece of rope and hold it up next to other ropes and see if it matches anything?"

"Only if you can hold yourself up. Will you be able to do this, Radar, or should I get someone else?"

"Uh, I think I can bring this thing that we're going to agree to not name out loud again to Sergeant Zale. He can do almost anything without fainting. He's from Brooklyn."

"Good. Get Zale to do the comparing. When he's done, get him to report back here."

"Yes, sir. I'll just wobble off to Supply now."

"Thank you, Radar."

Radar didn't so much reply as groan. Pierce shut the door. "So much for the rope."

Margaret replaced the lid on the box. "It _is_ a difficult assignment."

Pierce frowned as he regloved himself. "He needs to carry a bit of rope about sixty feet."

"I meant emotionally."

Pierce looked remorseful. "I know, but I need his help. Radar will survive."

"We can hope."

Pierce grinned. "Major! I didn't know you cared."

The taunt helped bring Margaret back to her former state of mind. She shook her head to regain control. "All right, Captain. Where were we?"

Pierce thought back. "Time of death."

"Yes. How quickly Lieutenant Carlyle would have had to make her decision and act on it."

"Right." Pierce walked back toward the gurney. "The other time-of-death factors are also pretty consistent with the `awfully fast-timing' school of thought. Rigor had started to present in the face, neck, hands, and feet. That's fine, you'd expect it to start there, but again, half an hour is pretty quick for normal onset. If she'd spasmed, I'd expect more uniform rigor. Without it, I think at least two hours would be more reasonable. Then there's the algor mortis. Her body temp was just over 94. Again, that's a temperature that you'd expect to find two or three hours after death, not less than one. However, she's a small woman and it was a cool night. It's possible that she lost heat more quickly than you might expect."

"So you think that a time of death of 4:30 is unlikely."

"If I didn't know anything about Randall's death, which supposedly set her off, no, I wouldn't estimate anything that recent. I'd push it back to 3 AM, possibly as early as 2."

Margaret nodded. She looked up to find Pierce's eyes fixed on her. His name was certainly appropriate. His gaze was keen enough to slice right through her.

"You know something," he said.

Margaret sighed. "Wilson said that Lieutenant Carlyle was upset the day before. She thought she might have been having problems with her boyfriend. Is it possible that she mistakenly prepared the morphine because she was upset -- upset enough to kill herself before she ever realized her mistake?"

Pierce held her gaze. "We haven't finished our investigation yet." He crossed to the x-rays. "I had these taken specifically to look for traumatic spondylolysis in the upper cervical spine -- the so-called `hangman's fracture.' You don't usually find it unless the body dropped more than its own height during the hanging, but I thought I'd check. As expected, a cervical fracture didn't appear, but I did notice this." He tapped the x-ray with a gloved finger. "The hyoid bone is fractured."

Margaret shook her head. "Why is that significant?"

"Because it's not in line with the main ligature furrow. I suppose it's possible that the rope slipped -- that the fracture to the hyoid occurred when she first stepped off the branch, and that her weight and the padding of the undershirt caused the rope to slide up higher on her neck as she hung." 

Margaret winced, hating the mental images that Pierce was putting into her mind. "Well, that all makes sense. If the rope didn't break that bone, how _did_ it get broken?"

"Someone strangled her, and then hanged her body to cover it up. Look at her neck again." He returned to the body and indicated various marks around the throat. "Rope is fairly thin. These contusions are wide. The undershirt wrapped around her neck was intended to disguise that, but it was only partially successful. These areas here and here --" he indicated the lower parts of Carlyle's neck, "are clearly below the area of constriction. How did she get those marks? Even if the rope slipped, you wouldn't expect it to leave this kind of bruising."

Margaret felt her heart beating faster. "What if Carlyle didn't kill herself? What if she had an argument with her boyfriend, and he killed her?"

Pierce leveled a look at her. "It would make certain irregularities about her death much more understandable."

Margaret was thinking hard. "But if Carlyle was murdered, you'd expect to find other marks on the body -- signs of a struggle. Did you?"

Pierce frowned. "Perhaps. I listed them in my report."

Margaret lifted the paper that she'd set aside. She glanced through the notes. "What's this about a contusion on her hip?"

"It's fresh. It must have occurred during the last day. You can see another on her right knee." Pierce lifted the sheet to reveal the fresh, even-colored bruise. "She could have banged her leg on something, or --"

"Or?"

"Someone might have thrown her to the ground."

Margaret gulped, and resumed reading. "You mention scratches?"

"On her arms and right side." Pierce moved up the gurney, and flipped back the sheet to show her. "It looks like it's from some kind of bramble, or thorny vine."

"Could it be from the tree she climbed?"

"I don't think so. I climbed that tree, and I didn't get any scratches. Besides, the tree has twigs, not thorns."

Margaret continued through the report. "No sign of sexual assault," she murmured. 

"Potter insisted we check. He wanted to be sure."

Margaret was relieved. At least she didn't have to add that to her mental list of horrors about Lieutenant Carlyle's death. She lifted her head. "So where does that leave us?"

Pierce shrugged. "You tell me. What I see is evidence that might be suggestive of an assault. Unfortunately, I don't think the autopsy alone can prove that."

"But you've discovered so many things!"

"That's why I'm sending her on to the medical examiner in Seoul. I'd rather let someone who does a hell of a lot more of this than I do make the final determination."

"But if a murderer is on the loose, we have to find him!"

"If it was Lieutenant Carlyle's boyfriend and they argued," said Pierce quietly, "it's pretty unlikely that he'll hurt anyone else."

"What if it was someone else?"

Pierce gave her a look. "How many potential murderers do you think we have running around here?"

"Well, hopefully none right around here --" She froze as a thought struck her. "Doctor, you found scratches!"

Pierce raised his brows. "So?"

Eagerly Margaret hurried toward the gurney. "So what if there were more scratches?" 

Pierce followed her. "Margaret, I checked Lieutenant Carlyle from head to foot."

Margaret peeled back the sheet triumphantly. "Did you check her fingernails?"

Pierce blinked. "Fingernails?"

"Yes! If there was a struggle, what if Lieutenant Carlyle scratched _him_?"

Pierce stared at her a moment, then bent to examine Carlyle's nails. "Hmm, trimmed short as you might expect. Still, this one looks pretty ragged."

"She might have damaged it scratching him," said Margaret. 

Pierce was staring at the fingertip. "There _is something here. Margaret, will you bring me a tweezers and tray?"_

Margaret rushed to get him the necessary instruments. Carefully Pierce scraped the impacted material into a metal collecting tray. He shot Margaret a look, then crossed to the microscope. Using the tweezers, he spread a small amount of the scrapings on a slide. He set the slip under the microscope. "Let's see what we've got."

Margaret fretted over his shoulder while he peered into the eyepiece, periodically adjusting the position of the slip or the focus. At last he straightened. "Want a look?"

"What is it?" Margaret bent over the viewer. Wads of epithelial cells appeared, along with sharp-sided boulders of grit. "Skin cells," she muttered. "But whose?"

"If there's any blood mixed in there, we might be able to come up with a type. Look at the sand particles."

"I see them."

"It's a very fine grit, actually. Look at the color."

Some of the grains were coated with a dark residue. "It appears stained."

"If we can find dirt with that type of staining, we'll know more about where this probable crime occurred. Here, I want to show you something else." 

Margaret surrendered her position to Pierce, who readjusted the slide. He stood back and gestured for Margaret to look. She bent to the viewer. "A hair?"

"A wavy blond hair," said Pierce. "Part of the follicle's present, indicating that it was pulled out. I hope there's enough tissue there to verify the blood type."

Margaret studied it. "Could it be one of Lieutenant Carlyle's?"

"Look at it, Margaret. It's too fine to be a pubic hair. It's too short and has too much of a curl to be one of Lieutenant Carlyle's. It's even a darker shade of blond than I would expect to find on her -- more of a reddish or brownish blond."

"Yes, I see." Margaret straightened. "What do you think it means?"

"I think that, if Lieutenant Carlyle's boyfriend turns out to be a strawberry blond with recent nail marks, we just might have a case for murder."


	4. Small Problem

**4. Small Problem**

Hawkeye steered the jeep over slimy roads, the brown water standing in ruts whose depth was impossible to determine. Despite his acquired skill at navigating trails that were clearly designed for use by ox carts, by his own standards the road they were following now was atrocious. He wrenched the wheel to avoid a particularly wide rut, which consequently slammed them into a pothole that was lurking under a puddle.

"Ow!" Beside him, BJ grabbed the door on his side of the jeep to keep from being pitched out.

"Sorry!" Hawkeye yelled against the wind.

BJ braced himself, one hand on the back of the driver's seat and one hand clutching the rim of the door, with both feet hard against the floor in front of him. "What I wouldn't give for my old Chevy!"

"It would have sunk up to its axels as soon as we left the main road."

"That's what I mean." BJ righted himself after another lurch. "Then we wouldn't have had to go through _this_."

Hawkeye grinned, then ducked under a low-hanging branch, getting a dribble of cold water down his neck as his reward. Korea had produced a mild seasonal rain to vex them. The misty drizzle was just light enough that Potter had insisted they go. It was also heavy enough that, after driving through it for nearly an hour, their clothes were damp to the skin. This was boosted by the occasional drops of water that rained down on them from the foliage that overhung the narrow trail. 

BJ steadied his helmet with one hand. "Why did Potter pick _this_ village?"

"He didn't," Hawkeye answered, steering wildly around another hole. "Mayor Doo Pak picked it, as partial compensation for letting the Ouijongbu police help us out with Lieutenant Carlyle's murder case."

"So they've definitely decided it's murder?"

Hawkeye shrugged. "We have a piece of rope that doesn't match any other rope in camp, and suspicious marks around her throat. She had clawed out several hairs that didn't match her blood type. The ME is leaving it open, but Potter thinks it was homicide. So do I." Hawkeye careened around another muddy hairpin.

"I didn't realize you were so certain."

Hawkeye glanced over to find BJ looking uncomfortable. "Well, I've had a couple of days to think about it. I can't think of any other meaningful way to interpret the evidence." He jogged around a fallen log. "I just hope they find that boyfriend soon. Any scratches she might have left on him won't last long."

"Why do you say that?"

"There was no blood under her nails. She could have left superficial abrasions only. We typed the killer's blood from the hair follicles she pulled out, probably from his arm." 

BJ shuddered. "Grisly."

"Bad enough." Hawkeye spotted a break in the trees. "We're here."

He guided the jeep into the clearing, the brakes squeaking a complaint as he brought the vehicle to a halt. In the sudden quiet, they could hear the light patter of rain on the leaves and dirt surrounding the village.

BJ climbed out, his boots squishing one by one into the mud. He turned to lift his medical bag out of the back seat. "Beautiful. I love to give folks a health check in the cold rain."

Hawkeye clambered out on the other side. "Maybe we can use one of the huts. Doo Pak said this village was hit only last week. They might have set aside an area as a hospital."

BJ ran his eyes over the ramshackle huts with a doubtful expression. "Some hospital."

Hawkeye lifted out his medical bag. "Hey, it's the only thing they have."

"I know."

Hawkeye slung his bag over his shoulder and turned toward the village, nothing more than a rough semi-circle of perhaps a dozen huts standing at odd angles to each other, proof of architecture that had been erected with no thought of vehicles in mind. Faces had appeared in the narrow doorways, barely visible under the overhanging thatch. Warily the inhabitants hovered within their shelters, making no move to come outside. Water dripped from the drooping fronds, making tiny muddy craters in front of every door.

"Where's the welcoming committee?" asked BJ.

Hawkeye shook his head, puzzled. The rain wasn't that bad. Someone should come out to greet them. 

An old man stepped out of a hut from somewhere in the center. Relieved, Hawkeye lifted a hand in greeting. "Yovo sayo!" he called. It was bad Korean, but the best he could manage.

The man stared at the two officers across the thirty feet or so that separated them. He made no move to come any closer.

"We're doctors from the MASH four-oh-seven-seven," Hawkeye said, articulating carefully. "We're here to look at your wounded."

The man continued to stare, or rather glare. Another man, younger but harsh looking, stepped out beside him. His face also went grim as he looked over the new arrivals.

BJ said softly, "What's going on, Hawk?"

"I don't know." Hawkeye felt uneasy. In all his excursions across the countryside, he'd never encountered any animosity from the locals -- until now.

A woman burst from yet another hut. She stabbed a finger in the doctors' direction, her shrill cry raising the hair on the back of Hawkeye's neck. She gabbled rapidly, her face and gestures angry. The rough-looking man reached for a hoe leaning against the side of his hut. He planted his feet firmly, holding the implement across his body threateningly. Another middle-aged woman joined him, her eyes hard.

BJ took a step back. "Say, Hawk? How about if we reconsider making this house call?"

"I don't get it." Despite the massing of the village against them, Hawkeye remained confused. "Didn't Doo Pak let them know we were coming? Do they somehow think we're from the other side?"

More villagers stepped out of their huts. Some of them held brooms or rakes -- or stones. The old man threw up his hand in their direction, speaking firmly, as if urging them to go. More people, young and old, joined the growing throng.

"Hawk," said BJ, "let's say we answer these and other questions later."

"Right." Prudence, not to mention a certain amount of intimidation, won out over his medical principles. "Let's take it slow, and try not to alarm anybody."

"Besides us, you mean?" 

BJ tossed his medical bag into the back seat and, keeping his eyes on the crowd, eased his long legs up into the jeep. Hawkeye did the same, hitting the starter as soon as he climbed aboard.

The crank of the engine acted like a signal. As soon as it caught, the assembled ranks of villagers surged forward.

BJ yelled, "Let's go!" 

Hawkeye hit the gas, turning the jeep in a tight circle. The clearing wasn't wide, and he ducked as they tore through the vegetation on the far side. A branch smacked his face, bringing tears to his eye. He flinched, hearing the ping of rocks against metal. The villagers were stoning the car.

BJ bellowed, "Hawkeye, move!"

Hawkeye floored it, dodging overhanging branches and thrown stones. A cooking pot rebounded off the hood. BJ seized his medical bag and used it to fend off a hedge of hoes and rakes as the jeep roared past.

The next moment they were on the trail again. Almost instantly Hawkeye hit a huge rut that nearly tossed him and BJ out. He overcorrected, smashed down a sapling, then jerked the wheel to regain the road.

A stone projectile came from behind, starring the windshield with a great crack before ricocheting off and hitting BJ in the ribs. BJ recoiled and swore, then crouched in his seat and looked back. 

"It's all right," he hollered. "They're falling behind."

"Hang on," Hawkeye said grimly. He took the jeep through a puddle that hid who-knew-what hazard beneath it. Water sprayed up on either side in a brown flume. The jeep rocked, slid, then bounced about a yard into the air, landing by sheer luck in the muddy tracks farther down the road. Hawkeye hit the gas again.

"Nice driving," BJ panted, clutching his seat.

Hawkeye didn't dare take his eyes from the road. "Have we lost them?"

"Yeah." BJ turned around and braced all four limbs as before. "Boy, am I ever glad to see this rotten road again."

"I'm not." Hawkeye, fists clenched, guided the jeep around a narrow curve. He hit a sunken log or rock that tossed the entire jeep about a foot to the right.

"I think you can slow down now, Hawk."

Hawkeye's heart was pounding. He was angry and upset, but above all, confused. He gritted his teeth and forced himself to back off the accelerator. The jeep continued to jolt them at every bump, but at least they weren't periodically airborne. 

BJ relaxed his hold on the jeep. "Thanks for getting us out of there." He rubbed his arm.

Hawkeye glowered at the road. "I don't understand. Why would they turn on us like that?"

"Maybe they don't like visitors."

Hawkeye glanced at him, then looked again. BJ was holding his right arm, while a red stain spread through the olive-drab cloth under his fingertips. Hawkeye's jaw dropped. "You're hurt!"

His momentary distraction caused him to run into a rut, so that he and BJ, if not the actual jeep, bounced into the air again. Hawkeye geared down and hit the brakes.

"Are you crazy?" BJ yelled. "Keep going!"

"Your arm is bleeding."

"Better that than my whole body. Hawk, move. It's not serious."

With misgivings, Hawkeye nudged the jeep back up to speed. Keeping his eyes on the road, he demanded, "Talk to me."

"It was the gal with the rake," said BJ. "She scraped me as we went by. The guy with the hoe did more damage." BJ held up his right hand. The three middle fingers oozed blood from the knuckles to the first joint. 

Hawkeye's stomach fluttered. "Beej, your hand."

"I know." BJ grimaced. "I can flex it, but it hurts like hell."

"Don't move it until we can take a picture. Damn!" He concentrated on the road. "What's better for you -- should I go faster or slower?"

"I don't know. Both options are so good." BJ studied the road a moment. "Slower."

"You got it." 

Hawkeye reduced his speed until the jeep merely rocked them, without forcing them to grab the sides to hang on. "Better?"

"Yeah." BJ bit his lip. "Let's keep going, though. I don't want to get ambushed again."

It took them almost an hour to regain the camp, with Hawkeye's heart in his throat the whole way. Fortunately the damage to BJ's hand was superficial. Hawkeye splinted it to be on the safe side. The rake had torn a nasty gash, so Hawkeye put the arm in a sling. With that, a tetanus shot, and a dose of penicillin, BJ was as good as Hawkeye could get him in the short term.

Potter was as concerned by the attack on his surgeons as anyone else in camp. Even after hearing their report, he couldn't leave the subject alone. He rehashed it yet again at the evening mess. The tent was filled to capacity, with a noise level to match; Hawkeye didn't doubt that every table there was discussing the same subject.

"I sent a message to Doo Pak almost four hours ago," said Potter, his voice raised to cut through the bedlam. "You think I'd have heard some response by now." 

"It's a rough ride to the village," said BJ. "They'll need some time just to get to there, let alone ask any questions."

"I don't like my doctors being attacked!" Potter announced, slamming his fist on the table for emphasis.

"Well, what did you expect from a bunch of heathen devils?" Frank screwed up his face in the way that Hawkeye found particularly annoying. No wonder his brother had named him "Ferret Face."

"Frank," said Margaret, sitting next to her beau as usual. "They're supposed to be on our side."

"Which just goes to show why we can't trust _any_ of them." Frank popped another forkful of mashed potato into his mouth. "They'w pwobabwy i'sane!" he said around the food.

"Look who's talking," muttered Hawkeye.

Frank swallowed hastily. "Look, Dr. Smarty-pants. I'm not the one whose best friend almost got raked to death by a bunch of farmers!"

"It's sad to think about," said Hawkeye, "when you consider how much fertilizer is lying around _here."_

Frank made a face. "Nertz to you."

BJ picked at his food thoughtfully. "They must have had a reason for what they did. Otherwise, it just doesn't make sense."

"This is war, Bub," said Frank. "If there isn't a certain amount of purposeless outrage, then we aren't doing our job."

"Did you get that out of the Army manual, Frank?" asked Hawkeye.

"That's in no Army manual I ever read," said Potter. He pushed back his tray, then fastened a sincere gaze on Hawkeye. "I hope we find out what this was all about soon. It'll be a lot more risky sending people to the field unless we can get to the bottom of this."

The noise in the mess tent suddenly abated. Hawkeye, who was sitting between BJ and Potter with his back to the door, glanced over his shoulder. A couple of MPs had just entered the mess tent, looking grim. Before them walked a middle-aged Korean in civilian clothes, dignified and vigorous-looking with a solemn face.

Potter followed Hawkeye's gaze, and bobbed his eyebrows in surprise. "That looks like Hung Pak," he said. "He's the mayor's younger brother, and the local chief of police."

"He doesn't look too happy," said Hawkeye.

"He's probably here to get our statement," BJ speculated, half-heartedly tearing open a roll.

Hung Pak spotted Potter sitting at the central table and approached, flanked by the towering MPs. Behind him, the door opened again. Two members of the Ouijongbu police entered, escorting a middle-aged Korean woman in peasant dress.

Hawkeye stared. "Beej, isn't that the lady with the rake?"

BJ turned around from his end position on the bench. As soon as the woman saw him, she shrieked and lunged forward, pointing her finger at him. It took the quick action of both her escorts to prevent her from rushing him. BJ stared in amazement.

Hung Pak shouted some terse orders in Korean. The woman responded with an emotional torrent, her wild gestures restrained by the grip the policemen maintained on each arm. At last she subsided into weeping.

More quietly, Hung Pak gave another order. The two policemen courteously assisted the woman outside. 

The incident had effectively silenced the mess tent. In the stunned aftermath, the Korean official walked forward. "Colonel Potter," he said in relatively unaccented English, "I am Hung Pak, Chief of Police. We met once two months ago."

"Yes," said Potter. "I was introduced to you and your brother shortly after I assumed command of this post." 

"I am glad you remember me," he said gruffly. "I'm afraid I am here to respond to a very serious charge."

"Well, it's reassuring to know that you're taking this seriously," said Potter. "My doctors' safety is very important to me. However, what we're looking for mostly is an explanation, not a jail sentence."

Hung Pak drew his eyebrows together behind his glasses. "To what are you referring?"

Potter pointed at the door. "That woman. She might have injured one of my doctors, but there's no need to lock her up if you can tell me _why_ she did it."

Hung Pak's expression was impossible for Hawkeye to read. "Then you may relax, Colonel Potter. I have no intention of locking this woman up."

"Then why did you bring her here?" asked Potter.

"To verify the identity of this man," he said, extending his hand toward BJ. "She has done so, and now I may proceed."

Hawkeye was getting an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach. BJ looked simply bewildered. Frank was staring at the proceedings with awe.

Hung Pak drew himself up. "Dr. BJ Hunnicutt?" he said crisply.

"Yes," BJ responded.

"I am here to arrest you on the dual charges of murder and rape. I would very much appreciate it if you would come along quietly."


	5. Small Comfort

**5. Small Comfort**

Hawkeye prowled furiously in the confined space between Colonel Potter's desk and the double doors to Radar's office. To his credit, Hawkeye's new CO was weathering his verbal assault fairly well -- something Hawkeye was too keyed up just now to fully appreciate.

"It's a setup!" Hawkeye waved his hands in agitation. "It has to be."

Potter folded his hands calmly on his desk. "Then could you offer me any explanation as to why that poor woman would lie?"

"I don't know." Hawkeye turned sharply to continue pacing. "Maybe it's a mistake."

"She reacted strongly to Hunnicutt both times she saw him," Potter said. "First in the village, then here."

Hawkeye placed his hands on the desk. "Maybe she's reacting to someone who only _looks_ like BJ. It was dark in the village the night her daughter was killed. What did she see? Some guy roughly BJ's size and coloring running off into the underbrush. Nobody in the world would convict him based on that."

"Hung Pak considers Mrs. Han's eye-witness testimony to be a very strong piece of evidence. She didn't just glimpse him running away. She saw him fairly close up with a kerosene lamp."

"But there's nothing to _prove_ that was BJ," Hawkeye persisted. "Nobody collected any physical evidence. What she thought she saw across a room by flickering lamplight is just her assertion at this point."

"Not quite, Pierce," said Potter. "Remember, Hunnicutt has no alibi for Wednesday evening."

Hawkeye hesitated. "I saw him just before midnight. He was fine, the same as always. He was just finishing a letter to Peg."

"But you didn't see him begin the letter."

Hawkeye whirled away to resume pacing, his own guilt gnawing at him. "No, I didn't. But Klinger didn't see him in the jeep, either. Colonel, the very idea of BJ being involved is ludicrous!" 

"Pierce, sit down."

Reluctantly Hawkeye drew a breath, then pulled a chair toward Potter's desk and sat heavily.

"Here are the facts as Chief Pak understands them," said Potter. "Captain Hunnicutt was off duty that night. Klinger was standing sentry. Burns was in post-op, and you were ... out."

Hawkeye looked away. He had enjoyed his evening with Bigelow tremendously -- until now. It was almost unendurable to think that one lighthearted romp with a colleague might cost BJ his freedom, or even his life.

"No one saw who took the jeep," Potter continued. "Whoever did it must have waited until Klinger was well away from the motor pool. It's Klinger's testimony that he never even knew the jeep was missing until it was returned. But that's what tipped Klinger off; obviously the thief couldn't anticipate Klinger's movements when he brought the jeep back. Klinger heard the engine, came to investigate, and found the jeep abandoned at the edge of the motor pool with its engine hot. He heard a noise and ran back to the compound, only to find --"

"Me," said Hawkeye. "I guess I wasn't too quiet shutting the supply room door."

"And he heard footsteps hurrying toward the nurses' quarters," said Potter. "Although Klinger didn't see the young woman, I assume that you might have an idea of who that must have been." 

Hawkeye ignored Potter's comment. "But if it _was_ BJ in the jeep, he would have had to run to the Swamp to get there in front of me. How come _I_ didn't hear any footsteps?"

"Were you even listening? Klinger can't be positive, but he thinks that he might have heard more than one set of footsteps."

Hawkeye reflected. It was true; he hadn't noticed anything, while Klinger had heard plenty. But Klinger had been standing guard duty, while Hawkeye had been, well, in the glow. "But when I saw BJ, he wasn't sweaty or looked as if he'd been exerting himself in any way. Hell, he was even _clean_. When's the last time somebody drove a jeep over one of these roads and didn't arrive coated with dust?"

"Hunnicutt's in good physical shape. If he took a few deep breaths and ran a towel over his face, I bet he could fool you if he wanted to. It's not like you had any particular reason to study him."

Hawkeye glared. "It sounds like you _want_ to believe that BJ is guilty."

"Not at all. But you have to understand, Pierce: the police are taking this very seriously. In the interest of maintaining amicable relations with the local authorities, we can't shield Hunnicutt in any way."

"So you just throw him to the wolves?"

Potter's eyes glittered. "This isn't a railroading, Pierce. Hung Pak is an honorable man. If Hunnicutt's case does come to trial, it will be conducted fairly."

Hawkeye felt himself getting wound up again. "No, Colonel. This isn't fair, and I'll tell you why. Hung Pak's star witness is fingering BJ, and I'm telling you that BJ couldn't have done it."

Potter lowered his voice. "Are you sure, Pierce?"

Hawkeye clenched his jaw. "Absolutely."

Potter's voice remained gentle. "Think, son. You've only known Hunnicutt for, what, three months?" Potter's gray eyes seemed to bore into Hawkeye's. "Are you positively sure that he couldn't have done this?"

Hawkeye held the old soldier's gaze, then shook his head. "Colonel, do you have any idea what BJ and I have already been through together? It's not like he's a stranger. On his first trip here from the airport -- did you read that report?"

"I reviewed it."

"Land mines, and snipers, and a mortar attack just to liven things up. Colonel, by the end of that jeep ride, I felt like BJ was my own brother. My blood brother. And everything that has happened after that has only reinforced that feeling. Colonel, in a war, you see people in all sorts of horrendous situations. You get to know them pretty well under those circumstances, and I can tell you this: BJ could no more commit a crime like this than you or I could. I'd bet my life on it."

Potter sighed. "Pierce, whatever your -- or my -- personal beliefs may be, I absolutely can't intervene. My orders are to let the local police pursue their own case."

Hawkeye slapped his hands against the desk and rose. He felt like he had to start moving again, or he'd explode. He headed for the door.

"Pierce," Potter called, "there's something else you should know."

Hawkeye made himself halt.

"Hung Pak is aware that Hunnicutt has the same blood type as the person whose hairs were found under Lieutenant Carlyle's fingernails."

An icy sickness swept through Hawkeye's belly. Slowly he turned to face Potter. He had to force himself to speak. "You can't mean that they're trying to pin that one on him, too."

"I don't officially know anything. However, I learned this morning that they have begun comparing samples of Hunnicutt's hair with those you collected from Lieutenant Carlyle."

Hawkeye felt light-headed. "What did they find?"

"I'm not sure if the results are conclusive," said Potter. "But they certainly haven't ruled Hunnicutt out."

* * *

Hawkeye wandered into Radar's office almost in a daze. It was a nightmare -- the whole thing was a nightmare. Last night's events still swirled through his brain -- the accusations, the shock, the hour-long shouting match that ended with BJ getting hauled off to the stockade to undergo further humiliations, while the police ran hither and yon throughout the camp collecting evidence and taking statements until everyone was damn near crazy. Or at least Hawkeye had been. The whole thing was so preposterous that he kept expecting it to fall apart every second. Instead, the noose only seemed to pull tighter around his friend's neck. The thought brought up images of Lieutenant Carlyle, and Hawkeye winced.

Radar looked up as Hawkeye entered his office. The young man's round, innocent eyes spoke volumes of sympathy as they gazed up at him through their smeared lenses. "Can I help you with anything, sir?" he asked softly.

Hawkeye heaved a sigh, then sank onto the edge of Radar's desk, staring into space. "I wish I knew, Radar. I wish I knew what to do."

Radar didn't respond, but even in his silence his support was obvious. When Hawkeye didn't say anything else, he began working again, quietly, considerate of Hawkeye's thoughts.

Hawkeye wished he had some. It couldn't be right -- not the second murder. Surely BJ couldn't _not_ have an alibi for both nights. It defied belief. 

Hawkeye shook his head. He was too much in a state of shock to think clearly. Maybe ... maybe he could take advantage of someone else's thinking. "Radar?"

The clerk instantly stopped his paper shuffling. "Yes, Hawkeye?"

"Could you get me the medical examiner in Seoul?"

Radar rose promptly. "Right away, sir."

Hawkeye got up to pace while Radar rang through. He was a little more composed when Radar finally handed him the phone. 

"It's a Dr. Volz," he whispered.

Hawkeye took the phone. "Dr. Volz? Captain Pierce here."

"Hello, Captain," said the thin voice on the other end of the line. "Are you the same Pierce who conducted the preliminary autopsy?"

"That's right. I wondered if you could brief me on your latest findings."

"Anything in particular?"

"I understand that you've reconsidered the manner of death."

"It's almost moot now that we have a suspect, but yes, I did come down on the side of homicide. There was internal hemorrhaging proximal to the hyoid and distinct from the ligature furrow. I had to rule out suicide. Of course, it's up to the courts to convict."

"Of course." Hawkeye fought the sluggishness of his thoughts. "What about the lab results?"

"Toxicology came back negative. The blood typing on the hair samples is B positive, same as the suspect's. We're comparing the foreign hairs found on the victim's body to various hairs, fifty or so, collected from the suspect this morning. Commonalities are present, but it's not conclusive either way."

"The ... suspect," Hawkeye cringed at the term, "doesn't have any scratches on his arms. I know because I bandaged one of them."

"That doesn't necessarily rule him out. The evidence suggests that the scratches were superficial. Three days would have been plenty of time for them to fade beyond notice."

Hawkeye hated hearing his own suspicions confirmed. Reluctantly, he asked, "Is there anything else?"

"Not really."

Hawkeye's heart sank.

"Oh, we did trace down that substance on the sand particles," added Volz. "It was oil."

"Oil." Hawkeye frowned. "As in, motor oil?"

"Common, ordinary oil, like you'd find in any of your jeeps and ambulances. This could indicate that the assault occurred along a road, although the particles were fine and could have drifted."

Hawkeye paused. "What do you think about the suspect?"

"I haven't met him. He's one of your doctors, isn't he?"

"Yes." Hawkeye groped for an unemotional statement. "I'm having a little trouble figuring out his motive."

"That's up to the police, isn't it?"

"Well, don't you have any theories?"

"Only conjecture. It's not my place to say."

"Doctor, I'd appreciate hearing your thoughts."

"Well," Volz hesitated. "I think the police believe that the victim may have witnessed him leaving or returning to camp after he killed the other young lady, and he silenced her to prevent her from telling anyone else. But I really don't know this for a fact. One of Chief Pak's investigators mentioned that the night guard found him fully clothed outside of his tent about a quarter past four that morning. He found it suspicious that this doctor should have been up at that time, with apparently nothing to do."

"I see." Hawkeye remembered his own surprise at BJ coming to his aid so quickly after he had sent Goldman for him. The knowledge that the police also found it peculiar didn't make him feel any better. "What about the first murder? Are you also working on that?"

"Yes, but I got to that one late. The body had already been prepared for funerary rites. There was no containment of the crime scene, and much of the physical evidence was contaminated. I can verify the cause of death, but I won't be much help to the police otherwise."

"What was the cause of death?"

"Asphyxiation, same as the other."

Hawkeye held onto the phone, then realized he was drifting. "Thank you, Doctor."

"Glad to be of help. Good luck, now."

Hawkeye set down the phone and resumed staring into space. Radar approached him cautiously. 

"Things look pretty bad for Captain Hunnicutt, don't they, sir?"

Hawkeye rose with a sigh. "Bad enough, Radar. Plenty bad enough."

He pushed through the office doors into the sunshine. It was only mid-morning, but it felt later. Hawkeye took a few steps, then looked down. Brown dirt, still moist from yesterday's rain, covered most of the compound. Hawkeye frowned. "Too brown," he muttered, then started toward the hospital.

The door to the Swamp flew open, and Frank Burns appeared. He was carrying a large, open box, its contents heaped so that his head was nearly obscured. Hawkeye watched him absent-mindedly, until something caught his attention: BJ's hat, perched on top of the pile.

Hawkeye woke up. "Hey!" He jogged toward his other roommate.

Frank's head peered around the heap as Hawkeye approached. "Oh, it's you."

Hawkeye pulled up. "What's going on, Frank?"

Frank set his jaw. "I'm taking these murderer's things to the storage tent. I refuse to have them intruding into my personal space!"

Hawkeye felt anger freeze out his malaise. "BJ's not a murderer, Frank."

"Well, he's been arrested, and that's the next best thing!" 

"Frank, there's this thing known as due process -- innocent until proven guilty, you may have heard of it?"

"_I_ happen to think that the police know their job. They wouldn't arrest someone unless he was guilty."

"It's too bad more people don't agree with you, Frank. Think of all the money we could save by getting rid of all those unnecessary judges and prosecuting attorneys."

Frank leaned forward. "You won't find _me_ going soft on crime. _I'm_ not the kind of person who hangs around with murderers and rapists. You might want to consider who you're defending, Captain Criminal Lover!"

Hawkeye's rage sprang back full force. "I happen to be defending an excellent doctor who's also a damn good friend!"

Frank's eyes narrowed to slits. "Two of a kind, eh, Pierce? Well, just you wait, Buster. It won't be too long before the MPs come for _you_!" Frank took a fresh grip on his box, then charged off in the direction of the storage tent.

Hawkeye looked after him, fighting back his physical reaction to punch him. Some of the first-shift personnel also stood by after witnessing the exchange. Well, there was nothing to be gained by making a scene. Hawkeye set out on his original course, walking toward the back of the complex.

The motor pool stood behind and to the right of the main hospital building. Hawkeye walked slowly. Yes, the ground definitely changed character here. The brown grit gave way to a fine gray silt. Hawkeye walked slowly, nudging it with the edge of his boot.

"Lose something, Captain?"

Hawkeye looked up. Corporal Klinger stood a few feet from him, with a rifle slung at his back. That was his only concession to the military. The rest of his outfit consisted of white pumps, a light blue frock with large white flowers, lavender gloves, and a pillbox hat with a veil, decorated with tiny lilac flowers.

Hawkeye stared at the hopeful Section 8. "Klinger, did the police interview you while you were wearing that outfit?"

Klinger held his head proudly. "Certainly not! It was after five last night when the police arrived. I was wearing my backless formal."

"Ah." Hawkeye felt a wisp of amusement lighten his mood, until a more somber reflection pushed it down again. "It's too bad the police didn't take your wardrobe into consideration when they took your statement."

"Oh, I'm a very credible witness, sir," said Klinger. "When my friend Hakim went out of the laundry business, I had to hide under the front porch for three weeks until the heat was off."

"I see." Hawkeye started to walk on, but Klinger took a step closer.

"I'm sorry if what I said got Captain Hunnicutt in trouble, sir," he said softly. 

"It's not your fault, Klinger. The jeep was missing and you had to say so. You really didn't see anyone near it?"

"Just you. You were partway across the compound. I thought that you must have taken a friend out for a little spin, if you know what I mean. That's why I didn't report it at the time. I didn't want to get you in hot water."

"I understand." Hawkeye cast his eye over the motor pool, and suddenly froze. He turned to meet Klinger's eye. "What if you _did see me?"_

Klinger cocked his head. "I don't follow you, sir."

Hawkeye hurried toward the closest jeep. "You thought I took the jeep." Hawkeye slapped his palm against the hood, turning toward Klinger with a triumphant smirk. "Well, what if you were right?"

At Klinger's bewildered look, Hawkeye stepped close to him. "It _was_ me in the jeep. You just didn't want to say anything because you didn't want to get me into trouble. And I didn't say anything because I didn't want to embarrass any of our lovely lieutenants." Hawkeye halted at Klinger's unyielding expression. "What?"

Klinger shook his head. "No way, Captain."

"But, Klinger, if they can't prove how BJ could have gotten to the village and back in the time frame, their whole case falls apart."

Klinger slipped the rifle from his back and let the butt hit the ground. He leaned on it, eyeing Hawkeye with the most serious expression that Hawkeye had ever seen on him. "Don't even think about it, Captain. Don't perjure yourself."

"But I know BJ didn't do it!"

"Then something else will prove that." Klinger lowered his voice. "Don't lie for him, Captain. It will come out later that you did, and then you'll really be in trouble. Trust me, sir. I know what I'm talking about."

Hawkeye stared into Klinger's face, the corporal's eyes meeting his with deadly earnest. Finally Hawkeye whirled and delivered a kick to the jeep's radiator. Angrily he started once again across the lot, keeping his eyes on the ground.

Klinger followed him. "Are you looking for something?"

"Just studying the dirt." Hawkeye squatted and pinched some grit between his fingers. "The color is right."

"Right for what, sir?"

Hawkeye rolled the earth between his fingers. "Soil like this was found under Lieutenant Carlyle's fingernails. If it matches, we might be able to determine where she was actually killed."

"You mean, she might have been killed here, and then moved to the tree?"

Hawkeye nodded. He rose and walked past the assembled trucks and jeeps. "You notice how the dirt looks different here? It's almost a powder."

"Well, that's not surprising," said Klinger. "It must get beaten to death by all the traffic --" He flushed at his thoughtless words. "So to speak."

"That's what I remembered." Hawkeye froze. A yellow shrub caught his eye at the edge of the clearing, just beyond the jeeps. Hawkeye walked towards it. Even as he drew closer, he could clearly see the spiny stalks. "Brambles," he muttered.

Klinger kept pace confidently in his pumps. "Is that what they are? They're all over this place."

Hawkeye touched a branch. The tiny spines caught at his skin, releasing their hold reluctantly. "They like the sun." Hawkeye glanced around. Now that he was looking for them, he noticed that they clung to almost every fold of the foothills. But here -- here was the only place where the brambles came close to the gray-colored silt.

"I don't know nothing from plants," said Klinger. "Brambles, you called them?"

"That's a type of plant," said Hawkeye. "I don't know this one's specific name."

"Well, I just call them bitch bushes -- begging the captain's pardon."

Hawkeye shot him a glance. "Bitch bushes?"

"Yeah. They're murder on a full skirt, not to mention anything sheer. You may have noticed how often I pull night guard duty wearing nothing but a plain sheath."

Hawkeye managed a small smile. "No, actually. That fact escaped me."

He stooped and gathered up a few pinches of earth here and there. Klinger watched him solemnly. "So you really think this is the place, huh?"

Hawkeye straightened, then headed for the lab. "Yes, Klinger. I think this is it."

* * *

Hawkeye leaned on the table next to the microscope, resting his forehead against his hand. Beside him, a small lamp starkly illuminated the latest slide. It had shown him what he wanted to know, but Hawkeye was feeling too despondent to even report his findings just now.

He heard the door to the lab open behind him. He straightened quickly in an attempt to hide the fact that he'd been brooding, reaching for a notebook in which to record his findings. 

"Captain?"

He turned at the gentle voice. Margaret Houlihan was standing just inside the door.

"Major." He turned back to his notebook, rummaging for a pencil. "Can I help you with something?"

"Not really." She came up behind him. Her perfume was light and sweet, not heavy like on the nights when she had a date with Burns. "I heard about the recent incident with Major Burns," she said softly.

"What incident?" Even as Hawkeye said it, his latest spat with Frank came back to mind. He turned back to the table. "It was nothing. Forget it."

Margaret leaned forward curiously, her scent enveloping him like apple blossoms. Or like the yellow blooms of brambles. Hawkeye shook his head, and began scratching out a log entry.

"What are you working on?" Margaret asked.

Hawkeye gestured briefly at the microscope. "Be my guest."

Margaret bent to peer into the eyepiece. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her move the slide slightly, and adjust the focus. Then she went still.

Hawkeye finished his note by the time Margaret straightened. "It's the same," she said.

"You think so, too?"

"Is this the same magnification?"

"Same size, same color, same staining." He initialed his entry with a flourish. "I'm willing to bet that substance is identical to what we found on Lieutenant Carlyle."

"Where did it come from?"

"The motor pool. Dr. Volz's team down in Seoul found traces of motor oil. I wanted to check it out."

Margaret gestured urgently at the table. "We should tell the police!"

Hawkeye sighed, then leaned against his hand again.

Margaret's expression fell. "What's wrong?"

"Even if this soil does turn out to indicate the murder site," said Hawkeye, "it won't get BJ off the hook. Their case assumes that BJ murdered her, then hanged her body to hide it. Worse, his blood type matches that from the hairs we found under Lieutenant Carlyle's fingernails -- B positive. And the hair itself is close enough to his that they can't rule him out."

Margaret stood a moment quietly, then pulled over a chair. Silently she sat, a tiny ridge between her brows indicating the seriousness of her thoughts.

Hawkeye said, "Margaret, what if I'm wrong?"

Margaret met his eyes with her crystalline blue ones. "How do you mean?"

Hawkeye indicated the litter on the table helplessly. "What if BJ really did kill those women? Could I have missed it? Could I really have made friends with someone who could have behaved so monstrously?"

Margaret took a breath. "Captain --"

Hawkeye leaped to his feet. "But I know him! It's the worst kind of betrayal to even _think_ that he might have done it!"

Margaret said slowly, "I know what you mean. I've also been doing a bit of soul searching."

Hawkeye turned toward her. "In what way?"

"Just ... wondering. Considering if it might be possible."

Hawkeye couldn't take his eyes off her. "What did you find?"

Margaret rubbed her palms together, then slid off her chair. She took two steps away from him. "That first morning, before I came to see you about the autopsy, I saw Captain Hunnicutt in post-op. When I mentioned that I was investigating Lieutenant Carlyle's death as a murder, he became agitated."

Hawkeye frowned. "In what way?"

Margaret waved her hands. "Well, maybe `agitated' is too strong a word. But he grabbed my arm, and wanted to know what my evidence was."

"Really." Hawkeye looked away.

"Of course, he may just have been alarmed at the idea. I mean, to propose that someone might have been murdered is a pretty shocking statement."

Hawkeye considered. "Yes. That could be it."

Margaret came closer. "What were _you thinking about?"_

"Well, like you, just little things. Like the look on his face when I told him that I was certain that Lieutenant Carlyle's death was a homicide. And why he might have already been dressed when Private Goldman came to bring him to post-op that morning."

Margaret tilted her face toward his. "BJ was already dressed?"

"Yeah. I never got around to asking him about it. I meant to, but so many other things happened that day ..."

Hawkeye let his mind drift back -- not to that morning in post-op, but to a similar morning the week before. It was the tail end of Thursday night -- actually early Friday morning -- before dawn. A surreptitious step had roused him from sleep. Hawkeye had pushed back the blanket to find BJ, in fatigues with a jacket over his arm, making his way to the door. Sleepily he asked, "You okay, Beej?"

The silhouette of his friend turned toward him in the dark. "Did I wake you? I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about it." Hawkeye pushed himself up on his elbow. "What's up?"

Weak light from the mess tent illuminated BJ's shoulders, enough for Hawkeye to see him shrug. "Nothing. I just wanted some air."

Hawkeye let his skepticism sound in his voice. "Uh huh."

BJ sighed, then seated himself on the edge of Frank's empty cot. "All right. I wanted to get out of here before Frank came back."

"Why?"

"It gets on my nerves. He comes in here all ... smug, just as if he doesn't have a wife back home that he's routinely cheating on. Well, some of us happen to love our wives. I just ... don't feel like hanging around while someone who feels so differently comes waltzing in."

Margaret's voice interrupted the memory. "Captain Pierce?"

Hawkeye looked down to find the major eyeing him. The recent memory of BJ's sensitivity and loyalty was uppermost in his mind. Impulsively he took Margaret's hand and guided her back to her chair. Sitting across from her, he tried to marshal his thoughts.

"Look, let's forget everything we think we know about BJ," he said. "Forget his decency, his willingness to help, his apparent love for his family. Just, erase all that away."

Margaret stared at him, mystified. "Yes?"

"One question remains. If BJ was guilty, why would he go back to the village, when he knew that at least one person there could identify him?"

Margaret lifted her shoulders. "Well, obviously, he didn't think she'd be able to."

"Uh uh. Chief Pak's whole case is built upon this so-called positive identification. The killer had to have known that he'd been seen."

"BJ couldn't refuse a direct order. Colonel Potter ordered him to go."

"If BJ really was the murderer, don't you think he could have found a way out of that? All he had to do was come down with a quick case of indigestion, and Burns would have had to go in his place."

Margaret wet her lips. "That's true. I didn't think about that."

"I mean, even if you suppose that BJ is totally morally corrupt in a way that fools everybody, you have to admit that his worst enemy wouldn't consider him stupid."

"No." Margaret's relief flooded her face. "No, he wouldn't." She sighed, then looked up with determination in her eyes. "So what do we do?"

"We have to find out who's really responsible. That's the only way to get BJ out of this."

A clatter at the door made them both turn. The door banged open, and Corporal Klinger flounced in, his rifle clattering against the jamb as he entered.

Hawkeye rose in surprise, with Margaret half a second behind him. He took in Klinger's appearance in wonder.

The corporal was a mess. His sleeves were torn, his hat was awry, his gloves and skirt were ripped in numerous places. Dirt smudged everything from his face down to his formerly white pumps. Despite this, Klinger drew himself up and threw them a happy grin. "Sir!"

Hawkeye stared in amazement. "Klinger, what happened?"

"They don't call them bitch bushes for nothing, sir," said Klinger. "I'll never be able to wear this outfit again."

Margaret's voice was sharp. "Corporal, what's the meaning of this?"

Klinger approached Hawkeye excitedly. "I couldn't help thinking about what you said, sir, about how the motor pool was the real scene of the murder."

"Yes?"

"Well, I got to thinking: what if there's more evidence lying around there? Something that nobody knew to look for because we didn't know where to look?" 

Hawkeye felt his heart pounding. "And -- did you find something?"

"The score is Klinger one, Bitch Bushes zero -- _despite the fact that they got a nice outfit out of me." He held up his left hand. Suspended from the tattered lavender glove hung a broken golden bracelet. "Ta dah."_

Hawkeye automatically reached for it, so Klinger jerked his hand away. "Uh, uh, sir. Fingerprints."

"Of course." Hawkeye stared at the metal band as Klinger cleared a place on the table. "Where did you find it?"

"End bush, right next to the building. The rain wiped out any footprints, but I left Goldman standing guard just in case." Klinger carefully arranged the bracelet in the space he'd cleared.

"This is all very interesting, Corporal," said Margaret. "But how do you know that this bracelet is Lieutenant Carlyle's?"

"Because it's autographed." Klinger stood back. "Take a look."

Hawkeye and Margaret bent over the bracelet together. The bracelet consisted of a finely woven chain. It had broken near the clasp, but clearly the delicate links wouldn't take much pressure to separate. In the middle of the bracelet was an engraved plate. Hawkeye could read the writing clearly.

_To Ellie. Affectionately yours, Danny._

Hawkeye looked over to meet Margaret's gaze. Her eyes were brimming with excitement. "Now we know the name of the boyfriend," she said softly.

Hawkeye closed his eyes with relief. 

"Does it help, Captain?" asked Klinger eagerly. "I mean, won't they be able to find another suspect now?"

Hawkeye braced himself against the table. "Klinger, if you weren't so disgustingly dirty, I'd kiss you right on the lips."

Klinger pulled himself to attention. "In that case, I'll be leaving now, _sir_!" He barked out the final word, then added in a more normal voice, "Do you want me to tell Colonel Potter?"

"By all means, Corporal," said Margaret briskly. "Tell him we'll be there in a few minutes."

"Right away, _m'am_!" Klinger threw a salute, then spun on a heel to march toward the door.

"Klinger," Hawkeye called.

Klinger spun around in a crisp about-face. 

"Thanks." He forced a weak smile. "For everything."

"Don't mention it, Captain. A Klinger always comes through." He right-shoulder armed his weapon -- an absurd movement in the mangled dress -- then about-faced again to proceed out the door. The cluck of his oversized pumps faded down the hall.

Hawkeye looked back to find Margaret beaming at him. "Well, Captain. Let's gather all this together, and go see the colonel."


	6. Small Surprise

**6. Small Surprise**

"_Zippity doo!_" crowed Colonel Potter, bending to study the bracelet that Hawkeye and Margaret had just placed on his desk. "Top-notch piece of sleuthing, Pierce!"

"Thank you, Colonel," said Hawkeye, "but we have to give this one all to Klinger. If Pak turns up a suspect based on this, BJ and I will keep Klinger in nylons for the duration of the war."

"I just _knew_ that Hunnicutt would be vindicated," Potter chuckled.

Margaret shuffled. "Colonel, aren't we moving a little fast?"

Potter looked up, still grinning. "How so, Major?"

"Well, we have a bracelet that probably belonged to Lieutenant Carlyle, and we have a man's first name, but we still have a long way to go toward establishing BJ's innocence."

"Quite right, Major." Potter lifted his head. "Ra--"

The office door swung open and the youthful clerk bustled in. "Yes, sir. I've tracked down Chief Pak and he says he can be here in fifteen minutes."

Potter said, "Why don't you get --"

"Private Goldman and Corporal Klinger are standing guard around the murder scene. They won't let anyone go near it until the police can comb the area."

"How about --"

"I've packaged the soil samples that Captain Pierce collected for delivery down to Seoul. I could courier them right away, or we could wait and see if Chief Pak wants us to do something else with them."

"Thank you, Radar," said Potter. "We'll hold onto everything until Chief Pak gets here."

"Yes, sir. Will that be all?"

"That will do for now. Thank you, Corporal."

"My pleasure, sir." Radar flashed Hawkeye a smile before he turned and left the office.

Colonel Potter straightened. "However, Major, you make an excellent point. The evidence is not all in. We have a few minutes before the police arrive. Is there anything else you'd like for us to do?"

"Well, the most obvious thing I can think of is to ask Lieutenant Wilson about this bracelet," said Margaret. "See if she remembers Lieutenant Carlyle wearing it."

"Jim-dandy idea, Major. We should establish ownership. How about you, Pierce? Do you have any ideas?"

Hawkeye shrugged. "If the major doesn't mind, I'd like to tag along with her."

Margaret lifted her chin. "No objections."

"All right, then, you two skedaddle. I'll let you know when Pak arrives."

"Thank you, Colonel," said Margaret, formal as usual.

Hawkeye twiddled his fingers. "See you in a few."

He followed Margaret out the door. Radar was bustling around his office. As soon as he saw Hawkeye, he halted in mid-step. "Sir, you want I should try and get Captain Hunnicutt on the phone and tell him about this?"

Hawkeye caught Margaret's cautious look. He said carefully, "Let's hold off on that a while, until we're sure we know what this new evidence means."

Radar's good spirits sank as abruptly as if they'd been dropped in a pond. "But, doesn't that bracelet mean that Chief Pak can find a new suspect now and let Captain Hunnicutt go?"

"Right now, Radar," said Hawkeye, "we aren't even sure whether or not this bracelet is Lieutenant Carlyle's."

"But it has her name on it --"

"Corporal," said Margaret sharply, bringing Radar to a halt. "The Captain and I are about to investigate that. We should know in a few minutes."

Radar lowered his head. "Yes, sir."

"M'am," she corrected.

"Both you sirs," amended Radar. 

Margaret rolled her eyes. Hawkeye placed a hand lightly on her back and guided her out the door.

The nurses' quarters consisted of a row of tents across the compound from the enlisted men's. Margaret walked confidently to the tent that had formerly housed Lieutenant Carlyle, and was still home to her three former roommates. She rapped on the wooden door. Gwen Wilson's voice called from within, "Come in."

Margaret pulled the door open. Hawkeye ducked his head and followed her. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust from the brightness outside. As his vision cleared, he saw Lieutenant Wilson perched on the edge of her cot, the lower of a set of bunk beds. Bigelow sat in a chair across from her, leaning forward. Obviously the two had been deep in conversation.

Margaret softened her voice from its all-too-frequent drill-sergeant's yell. "Girls, I'd like to speak with you. Particularly you, Wilson."

"Of course, m'am," Wilson responded. 

"One of the men located a bracelet behind the motor pool. We'd like to establish whether or not it was Lieutenant Carlyle's."

"A gold bracelet?" asked Wilson.

Hawkeye noticed the previously undetectable tension in Margaret's shoulders relax. "Yes," she answered.

"Sure," said Bigelow. "We all saw it. A gold chain with a little plaque. She got it, maybe ... three weeks ago?"

"The plaque was engraved," said Hawkeye.

The two nurses' faces showed their surprise. "Was it?" asked Bigelow.

Wilson lifted her shoulders. "If it was, I never noticed. She must have worn it with the engraving inside."

"Isn't that a little strange?" asked Margaret.

"Ellie's whole relationship with that guy was a little strange," said Bigelow. When Wilson shot her a look, she added, "Well, it was."

"In what way?" asked Margaret.

"She wouldn't tell us his name, for one thing," said Bigelow. "Just his nickname." 

"Big Fellow," Margaret muttered.

Hawkeye blinked. "Really?" He stepped further into the tent so he could see Margaret's face.

The major was obviously fighting embarrassment, or irritation. "Yes," she said shortly. 

Hawkeye gave Bigelow a look. "Why did she call him that?"

Margaret pressed her lips together. "Captain!"

"No, seriously, Major." He turned back to Bigelow. "Why?"

Bigelow shrugged. "I really don't know why, Hawk."

Wilson added, "I think it was something he picked up in camp."

Margaret's face was tight with annoyance. "I think we've pondered this question long enough."

Hawkeye faced Margaret. "Major, how tall would you say Captain Hunnicutt is?"

"He's six-foot-four, as you know perfectly well." She stopped, startled. "He's six-four!"

"Might not someone consider that `big,' as in `tall?'" asked Hawkeye.

Margaret looked stunned. "You're right. I wasn't even thinking about interpreting the name that way." 

Hawkeye declined to comment on what way he was certain that the major was thinking about. "So possibly Lieutenant Carlyle's love interest was tall, maybe as tall as Captain Hunnicutt."

"Possibly," said Margaret.

Hawkeye turned toward the two nurses. "Did you get any other kind of physical description?"

Both women shook their heads. Wilson said, "She was really secretive about her relationship. She knew we weren't supposed to ... fraternize with the soldiers."

"But she saw him anyway," said Bigelow. "She'd sneak out at least once a week."

"That's very dangerous," said Margaret tartly.

"I'm sorry, m'am," said Wilson. "I told her not to do it, but she'd sneak out anyway. She was good at it. I usually only noticed she'd been out after she came back in."

"She had this top bunk?" asked Margaret.

"No, the lower one." Bigelow indicated the bunk bed across the room. "She wanted to switch with me, so I took the upper bunk."

"When was the last time she sneaked out?"

Bigelow's face grew grim. "Well, obviously the night of the murder, when she was killed."

"She was out the night before that, too," said Wilson.

Bigelow raised her brows. "Really?"

"Yes. She came in kind of hurriedly, and she was definitely out of breath. I think she must have been running."

Ah, the night of the village girl's murder. Hawkeye's attention was keenly fixed. "What time was that?"

Wilson gave him a helpless look. "I don't know, Doctor. I was sleeping."

Margaret interrupted with other concerns. "Was she in trouble? Perhaps running away from someone?"

"I don't think so, m'am. I asked her if she was all right, and she said `Fine.' She threw off her clothes and rolled right into bed. She didn't say anything more."

Margaret turned toward Bigelow. "Is that what you remember?"

Bigelow couldn't help meeting Hawkeye's eyes. Hawkeye was sure that she was picturing their little rendezvous in the supply tent -- not that either of them could say that. He barely lifted his shoulders and gave her a lopsided smile.

Wilson came to her roommate's rescue. "Bigelow had stepped out for a minute," she said. 

"Uh, yes," said Bigelow. "I remember, I had to --" She gave Hawkeye another look. "--visit the latrine." 

Hawkeye fought to keep his face impassive. He didn't know whether he was about to laugh, or cringe at Bigelow's uncomplimentary comparison.

"She came in right after Ellie drew up the covers," continued Gwen. "That's why I noticed." Hawkeye made a mental note to give her a big hug when this interrogation was over.

"Then perhaps," said Margaret, turning toward Bigelow, "_you_ remember the time."

"Not exactly," said Bigelow. "But I think it was close to midnight."

Margaret was standing in that iron stance of hers. Hawkeye wasn't certain whether she was onto the deception, or merely angry about her nurses running around in the middle of the night. "Can Lieutenant Kellye confirm any of this?"

"I don't think so, m'am," said Wilson. "She had post-op duty that evening."

"Well, this is all very suspicious," said Margaret. "However, it doesn't prove that Lieutenant Carlyle was off the base that evening."

"Begging your pardon, Major," said Wilson, "but I think she was."

Margaret frowned. "You said you were asleep."

Wilson leaned forward. "Do you remember how I told you that Ellie was upset the day of the murder?"

"Clearly," said Margaret.

"Well, something in particular seemed to be bothering her. When you mentioned the bracelet, it brought it back to mind."

"What was it?"

"A ring. A jeweled ring."

Bigelow looked interested. "I never noticed any ring."

Wilson responded directly to her roommate. "It was new. I barely got a glimpse of it, just a flash now and then as she fiddled with it. I'd never seen it before." She lifted her gaze back to Margaret. "I'm certain she must have gotten it that evening, Major. Where else could it have come from?"

Hawkeye said, "There was no ring on the body. Could she have put it away somewhere?"

"No, Doctor," said Gwen. "Baker and I packed up all her personal effects. It was a gold, jeweled ring; I remember glimpsing a green stone, and also maybe amethyst. There was no such ring among her things."

Margaret said to Hawkeye in a low voice, "Maybe we'll find it at the murder site."

Hawkeye murmured back, "Maybe we'll find it on the murderer."

Bigelow sat up. "You found the murder site?"

Margaret raised her voice. "Captain Pierce located some soil that appears to match that found on Lieutenant Carlyle. The police are on their way now to check it out."

Bigelow beamed. "Nice going, Hawk!"

Hawkeye dipped his head. "I try to serve in my small way."

"That's awfully modest talk for a man of such proven capabilities."

Hawkeye was certain this was Bigelow's way of apologizing for the "latrine" comment earlier. He couldn't help but grin.

Margaret's expression reflected a reverse sentiment. "Lieutenant, Captain Pierce's ego is hardly in need of inflating."

Bigelow tried to look contrite. "Yes, Major."

"Now," Margaret continued, "is there anything else relevant to this case that either of you can contribute?"

The nurses exchanged a look. Wilson said, "That's all I can think of, Major."

"Very well. Report to me immediately if something else comes to mind."

"Or you can report to me," said Hawkeye, "depending on what it is that comes to mind."

Bigelow stifled a laugh. Wilson ducked her head to hide a smile.

"That will be _all_, Captain," said Margaret sharply. She pushed back the door, holding it wide for him to precede her.

Hawkeye waved a farewell. "Ladies." Smiling, he stepped into the sunshine.

Margaret followed him out, letting the door crash shut behind her. She strode briskly toward the colonel's office. Hawkeye sprinted a few steps to catch up and walk beside her.

"Just once," growled Margaret, "I would like to see you conduct yourself in a professional manner."

"Ah, but this is hardly a professional situation," Hawkeye countered.

Margaret didn't pause. "What do you mean?"

"I'm clearly the worst kind of amateur sleuth, bumbling my way toward a solution."

"You're certainly the worst kind of something," Margaret grunted.

"But look at what we've established." Hawkeye caught her elbow to slow her down. Margaret turned and faced him, her expression showing impatience and dislike. Hawkeye ignored her mood. "We've identified a boyfriend named Danny who is reputedly big, possibly meaning that he's tall. We have good grounds for believing that it was Lieutenant Carlyle, not BJ, who took the jeep Wednesday night. Klinger, who was on guard duty, clearly remembers hearing footsteps heading toward the nurses' quarters."

"If you can believe that goofball," Margaret muttered.

"The police believe him, or BJ wouldn't be locked up right now. And finally, we now know about this ring."

Margaret began to calm down as she considered his statement. "That does give us something extra to go on."

"You better believe it does. Unlike a bracelet, a ring isn't likely to be jarred loose in a struggle. It's a pretty good bet that the murderer removed it himself."

"So if we find the ring, we find Lieutenant Carlyle's killer."

Hawkeye nodded grimly. "That's my hunch, for what it's worth."

"Hawk?"

Hawkeye looked up to find Radar approaching them. The clerk lifted his hand. "Chief Pak's here, Hawk. The colonel wants you and Major Houlihan to come."

Hawkeye plucked playfully at Margaret's sleeve. "Shall we tell them the good news?"

Margaret pulled away, trying to look severe. She said loudly, "We're on our way, Corporal."

"Right, Major. Thank you, sir." Radar attempted a salute, and bonked himself in the head with the clipboard. He stumbled back a few steps, then turned to stagger into the office.

Hawkeye grinned and followed. Beside him, Margaret muttered, "Imbecile." 

"I don't know. Admit it, Major. Don't you find Radar kind of cute?"

"I find him nothing of the kind!" Margaret snapped. "I for one do not appreciate clumsiness, or stuttering speech, or this continual lack of professionalism!"

"Do you want to break the bad news to Frank," Hawkeye teased, "or shall I?"

As expected, Margaret whirled on him with fire in her eyes. "I've heard just about enough out of you, Captain!"

Hawkeye merely smiled, and extended his hand toward the office. Margaret turned with a huff and marched in before him.

Radar was back at his desk, rubbing his eyebrow. "You sirs can go right in," he said.

Hawkeye pushed open Potter's door for Margaret. She swept past him, not deigning to acknowledge the gesture. Hawkeye followed and let the door swing shut.

Inside, Colonel Potter stood waiting behind his desk. Chief Pak turned to face the door as Margaret and Hawkeye entered. His expression was grim behind his glasses.

"Colonel Potter was just showing me your new evidence," Pak said.

"That's right, Chief," Hawkeye said. "We've found out a couple of other things as well."

Potter raised a hand. "Pierce --"

"No, it is all right," Pak interrupted. He turned back to Hawkeye. "What else have you found?"

"First of all," said Hawkeye, "Lieutenant Carlyle was wearing a ring."

"A gold, jeweled ring," put in Margaret, "with amethyst and some kind of green stones."

"I will have my men search the area for that," said Pak. "What else?"

"We're almost certain that it was Lieutenant Carlyle who took the jeep Wednesday night," said Hawkeye. "One of her roommates saw her come in at exactly the right time, and our guard heard footsteps running toward the nurses' quarters."

"Ah, yes. The transvestite," murmured Pak.

"He's a good soldier," retorted Hawkeye, then immediately felt like an idiot for saying it.

"Seriously, sir," said Margaret. "If one of my girls did take the jeep to visit this Danny person Wednesday night, then Captain Hunnicutt couldn't have taken it."

"Can you prove that Lieutenant Carlyle took the jeep?"

"No," said Margaret. "But she got her new ring that night."

"Is it possible," said Pak, "that whoever gave her the ring brought it to her here?"

Margaret shot Hawkeye a startled look. He could only return it. In his eagerness to amass evidence that could exonerate BJ, he had overlooked an obvious alternative. 

"In any case," said Pak, "the absence of the jeep, while suggestive, is not conclusive. Your man could have found another way to travel to the village."

Hawkeye was becoming annoyed. "How?"

"I am certain we'll find that out if we need to," said Pak imperturbably. "Remember, my case is based on an eye-witness identification, not a missing jeep." 

"Then put this fact in your file," said Hawkeye. "Lieutenant Carlyle's boyfriend had the nickname `Big.' Doesn't that suggest to you a tall person, someone who might accidentally be mistaken for Captain Hunnicutt?"

Pak turned aside haughtily. "We know all about Lieutenant Carlyle's ... boyfriend." 

Hawkeye froze. "What?"

Pak's eyes sparkled angrily behind his glasses. "You must think we are very foolish."

"Now, Chief," Potter interjected. "I'm sure that Captain Pierce didn't intend any disrespect."

Pak's anger was unabated. "What do you think the police have been doing all this time -- waiting for people like you to solve our problems for us?"

Hawkeye felt his anger rise in reaction to Pak's. "Frankly, Chief, I don't know what your people have been doing -- outside of arresting my best friend, who I can tell you right now isn't guilty of anything."

"But you're so certain that this ... boyfriend, is."

"He seems to be the most reasonable suspect."

"Is that so?" Pak clasped his hands behind his back and stared serenely into Hawkeye's face. "Daniel Panatela, Private First Class, assigned to the company that is presently stationed two miles northeast of Koyang-ni."

Hawkeye felt his anger evaporate in bewilderment. "You know his name."

"Of course we do. He first met Lieutenant Carlyle about a month ago at Rosie's Bar. Their affair continued in other, less public places."

"Then why isn't he a suspect?" asked Margaret. "Did you bring him in for questioning?"

"That is not possible at this time," said Pak. "He is away with most of his unit, on maneuvers."

"Hang maneuvers!" cried Hawkeye. "This guy may have killed two people!"

"He could not have killed either woman," said Pak. "He left on Thursday morning. Due to his absence, it is unlikely that he even knows that Lieutenant Carlyle is dead."

"Oh," said Hawkeye sarcastically, "and you don't think it's possible that he might have slipped away long enough to commit a murder?"

"Even if he left on Thursday," said Margaret, "that would only help to rule him out for Lieutenant Carlyle's death. He still could have attacked this other woman Wednesday night."

"The facts do not support such a supposition, Major," said Pak.

"In what way?" Pierce demanded.

Pak met Hawkeye's eyes with a cool stare. "Daniel Panatela is Italian. Like many men of his heritage, he has dark eyes, dark skin, and very dark hair -- quite as dark as yours, Doctor. And in case you are still not convinced, he also has blood type A negative."

Hawkeye stood astounded.

Pak turned away. "I appreciate your zeal, Captain. But the physical evidence indicates that Private Panatela could not possibly have committed either crime."


	7. Small Talk

**7. Small Talk**

Hawkeye could scarcely contain his irritation as he stormed out Potter's door. Radar looked up in concern. "Hawkeye?"

"Later," Hawkeye grumbled, then let himself out into the compound. He advanced several steps then halted abruptly. He stood breathing heavily, willing himself to calm down.

"Captain?"

At the soft voice he whirled. Margaret had followed him into the yard. She shifted from foot to foot, looking uncomfortable. Hawkeye looked away. "Major."

Margaret approached. Hawkeye battled his vexation. He didn't feel like talking to anyone, least of all her right now. 

"Captain," she repeated softly, "I appreciate how you must feel."

Hawkeye could barely manage to be civil. "Do you." He paced tightly back and forth, fretting with agitation. "BJ is innocent. Innocent! But I seem to be the only person in the world who understands that."

Margaret placed a gentle hand on his sleeve, stopping him. "You're not the only one who understands it. You can believe that or not."

Hawkeye looked down at her, and felt his nervous energy subside. "Thank you, Major."

"You're welcome." 

Margaret smiled up at him with the closest thing to friendliness that he could remember seeing from her. Almost against his will he found himself smiling back.

"Pierce!" came a sharp cry from across the compound.

Margaret hastily removed her hand, as Frank Burns came up. He looked from one of them to the other, no doubt perturbed by their sudden, unexpected rapport. 

"What's going on here?" he demanded.

Margaret said, "The police are searching for --"

"That's not what I meant." He looked uneasily from Hawkeye back to Margaret. "You were ... touching him."

Margaret opened her mouth, but seemed momentarily at a loss for words.

"It was a vermin-control exercise, Frank," said Hawkeye.

Frank looked up innocently. "Vermin?"

"That's right. It's time for my semi-annual delousing. The major here was just verifying that, as suspected, I'm infested up to my armpits."

Frank jumped back. "You'd better get rid of those things before you come back to the Swamp!"

"Relax, Frank. I plan to swim through a vat of DDT in just a few minutes."

"Good!" Frank twitched and stepped back a couple of feet. "Ew. Lice!"

Hawkeye clamped down on his smile. Under the circumstances, he found Frank's predictability oddly reassuring.

"Major," said Frank sharply, "I suggest that you let this infested ignatz make his own way to the dispensary. You and I ought to ... check on our supply situation, before any wounded come in."

Hawkeye couldn't help lifting up his eyes at such a sorry attempt at subtlety. 

"My girls are already checking the status of our supplies," said Margaret smoothly.

Frank's face fell. "They are?"

Margaret nodded. "Standard procedure. They're doing a full inventory before Lieutenant Carlyle's replacement arrives."

"But that could take hours!" Frank cried. "And, and the lull could be over any minute!"

"All the more reason to let them finish without any interference, Frank," said Hawkeye.

Frank turned on him. "You keep out of this, Mr. Lice Breath!"

"That's _Doctor_ Lice Breath," corrected Hawkeye.

"I hope they crawl up your nose!" Frank yelled, then marched off with his fists clenched.

Hawkeye shook his head. Frank's escapades, however amusing, did wear on him. His day had been such a series of ups and downs that Hawkeye suddenly felt exhausted.

Margaret's voice broke in on his reflections. "Assuming that you aren't going for a swim any time soon, Captain, how about if I buy you a drink?"

Hawkeye looked over at her in confusion. "Really? Why?"

"Because you look like you could use one." Margaret started walking down the road. Bewildered, Hawkeye fell in beside her. "Besides," she continued, "I'd like to hear what Rosie might have to say."

"_Rosie._"

"According to Chief Pak, Lieutenant Carlyle met Private Panatela there. Since Private Panatela is currently unavailable, Pak could only have found that out by talking to the private's friends. Maybe some of those friends are still around. It's possible that one of them might know why Lieutenant Carlyle was upset the day of the murder."

Hawkeye trudged along beside her, but his feelings weren't hopeful. Pak had also mentioned that most of Panatela's unit was out on maneuvers. In any case, it was early in the day to expect any soldiers to be hanging around Rosie's Bar.

His misgivings appeared to be confirmed when he pushed aside the hanging curtain that served as the door to the bar. Only a few military folk were present, scattered among the empty tables in quietly talking groups of two or three. A couple of isolated holdouts sat by themselves, nursing their drinks and staring into space. Rosie was working her way through stacks of used glasses behind the bar, evidence of a lunchtime rush that had now passed.

The stale scent of food pricked Hawkeye's nostrils. He'd been so busy today, he'd forgotten to eat.

Almost as if she'd read his mind, Margaret asked, "Have you eaten yet?"

Hawkeye checked his watch. "It's a little late for lunch."

"That's all right." Margaret approached the bar. "Hi, Rosie. What have you got on the stove?"

Rosie wiped a glass and set it in its place. "All I have left now is soup."

"What kind of soup?" asked Hawkeye.

Rosie picked up another glass. "You don't want to know."

Before Hawkeye could speak, Margaret said, "Fine. We'll take a bowl of that."

Rosie slanted them a look. "Both of you?"

"Just the captain," said Margaret.

Holding the look, Rosie backed up a step, then called instructions in Korean over her shoulder. She returned to the bar. "Anything to drink?"

"An Old Fashioned," said Margaret.

"A beer," said Hawkeye. 

"Make that two beers," said Margaret.

As they climbed onto the bar stools, Rosie popped off the caps and set the beers in front of them. Carbonation wafted from the narrow mouths of the bottles. Hawkeye picked up his beer and took a healthy slug. It was warm, but it was wet. It hit his empty system like a bucket of water over the head.

Margaret leaned her elbows on the bar. "Rosie, do you remember a Private Panatela?"

Rosie bustled among the dishes. "Not by that name, I don't."

"He was in here about a month ago," Margaret continued. "You might have seen him with Lieutenant Carlyle."

"Sure, I know who he _is," said Rosie. "I said I just didn't know him by that __name."_

One of Rosie's female helpers emerged from the back room, carrying a brimming wooden bowl. She set it in front of Hawkeye along with a spoon that actually looked clean.

"Well, what name did you know him by?" Margaret asked.

"Mr. Big," said Rosie. "Among others."

Cautiously Hawkeye peered into his bowl. Tiny beads of orange grease floated on top of a broth that was an indeterminate shade of brown. He wished he could identify more of the chunks that lay semi-submerged in there. 

Margaret lowered her voice. "Are any of Private Panatela's friends in here now?"

"No, that whole unit is out on maneuvers. They left Thursday morning."

Hawkeye shook his head as he picked up his spoon. Rosie was usually on top of the news, as she had once again demonstrated. Experimentally he poked at his soup.

"Besides, Panatela didn't have many friends," Rosie continued. "Just the other strangers."

Hawkeye had isolated a white lump from the stew. He held it out on his spoon for inspection. "What's this?"

"Bean curd," Margaret answered shortly. To Rosie she asked, "What strangers?"

Hesitantly, Hawkeye put the thing in his mouth. The broth had a thin, vegetable taste, but the white thing didn't taste like much of anything at all. When he bit into it, its texture reminded him of the thickened skin of week-old gelatin. He made a face, chewing reluctantly.

"That's what they called themselves," said Rosie. "The Three Strangers. It was their little joke. They wanted everyone to call them by their nicknames: Tall, Dark, and Handsome. But the joke backfired. People start referring to `Dark' as `Shady Dan.'"

"That was Private Panatela?" asked Margaret.

"Right. Only I not hear the Panatela part until Chief Pak tells me about him, just Shady Dan. So he comes up with a new nickname: Big. That was the name he was using when he met Lieutenant Carlyle."

Hawkeye had routed out a flattened, yellowish thing with wrinkly edges. He presented it to Margaret. "What's this?"

"Chinese cabbage," she answered. "So the Three Strangers came to be known as Tall, _Big,_ and Handsome?"

"That's what they _wished_," said Rosie. "But nobody else called them that, except for Lieutenant Carlyle."

Tentatively Hawkeye tasted the spoonful of cabbage. It was a little stringy, but not altogether bad.

"What did everyone else call them?" asked Margaret.

"Mean, Dumb, and Ugly," said Rosie. "Private Panatela was Dumb."

"Flattering," said Margaret.

Rosie scrubbed a glass clean with a vengeance. "Man, those three were bad news."

Hawkeye's attention was finally caught. He looked up. "In what way?"

Rosie leaned closer, as did Hawkeye and Margaret. "Scuttlebutt says they were dealing on the black market. Drugs, mostly, but also other supplies." She straightened. "You know my standards. When I hear about this, I throw the bums out. I run a family bar."

Margaret looked startled and alarmed. "Did Lieutenant Carlyle know about this?"

"I tried to warn her. But she believed that Shady Dan. He told her this story about how he gives the supplies to the orphans. Maybe he even did a few times. But most of the stuff they sold for profit."

Margaret gave Hawkeye a desperate look. He could guess what she was thinking. If Lieutenant Carlyle had finally figured out that her boyfriend was dealing on the black market, she might have threatened to expose him. The three may have conspired to get rid of her. But clearly Panatela hadn't committed the actual crime.

"What can you tell me about the other two Strangers?" Hawkeye asked.

"Handsome was shorter than the others," said Rosie. "Brown hair, I think. Good looking, too. In fact, they all were, if you didn't know about their activities."

"But you never heard any other names?" asked Margaret.

Rosie shook her head. "Just nicknames." She appeared to think back. "Handsome was a corporal. The other two were privates."

Margaret sighed. "There are a lot of corporals and privates in this man's army."

Hawkeye said to Rosie, "Tell me about Tall."

"Him!" Rosie barked a humorless laugh. "He was the worst of the bunch, a real slime ball."

"Was he tall?" asked Margaret.

"Oh, yeah. Taller than you, Doc -- I think. Not by much."

Hawkeye's stomach developed a knot. "Rosie, was he by any chance a blond-haired man, thin-to-medium build, clean-shaven, with blue eyes?"

"What, you think I look into his eyes?" Rosie considered. "Maybe they were blue. I don't remember."

Hawkeye said slowly, "And you told Chief Pak all this?"

Rosie laughed. "Like he'd want to know! As soon as he find out Shady Dan's hair color, he's right back out the door."

Hawkeye slid off his bar stool, fumbling in his pocket for change. "Thanks, Rosie."

Margaret jumped down beside him. "Where are you going?"

Hawkeye plunked down a dollar and a few coins, suspecting that would more than cover his tab. "Back to Potter's office. It seems as if the police could use help from people like us after all."

He strode out the door. Margaret hesitated, then ran to catch up. She lowered her voice as they hurried along the street. "So you think Tall killed Lieutenant Carlyle?"

"He matches the description," said Hawkeye.

"So does Captain Hunnicutt," Margaret reminded him.

"Yeah, but BJ isn't dealing on the black market." He walked on, considering. "I wonder if there's some way to verify Tall's blood type."

"You'd need to know his name for that."

They had just passed under the Best Care Anywhere sign, when a female voice called, "Major!"

Hawkeye broke stride and looked around. Lieutenant Kellye ran toward them, waving her hand to get their attention.

Margaret put on a professional voice. "What is it, Lieutenant?"

Kellye drew up, panting. "Major, I've been looking all over for you." 

"Well, you've found me. What is it?"

Kellye glanced uncomfortably at Hawkeye. "May I talk to you?"

"What about?"

Kellye was uncharacteristically hesitant. "There's a problem in Supply."

Margaret had never been celebrated for her patience. "Can't it wait, Lieutenant?" she snapped.

Kellye looked apologetic. "I'm afraid not, m'am."

Margaret sighed, then looked unhappily at Hawkeye.

Hawkeye shrugged. "Take care of your problem, Major. When you're free, you know where to find me."

"Very well." Margaret started off after Lieutenant Kellye. Hawkeye couldn't help noticing how Kellye broke into a jog every few steps, only to slow down again to match Margaret's unvarying, forceful pace. He certainly didn't envy whichever lieutenant had discovered the miscount in the tongue depressors, or whatever else it was that was preventing Margaret Houlihan from following up on Lieutenant Carlyle's death. 

Hawkeye entered the outer office. Radar was on the phone, so Hawkeye walked on through. He rapped, then pushed open the door to Potter's office. An empty room greeted him. He blinked in surprise, then stepped back through the door.

Radar hung up the phone. 

"Where's Potter?" Hawkeye demanded.

"You just missed him." Radar grabbed some paperwork and carried it to the file cabinet. "He went into town to apologize to the Paks."

"What do you mean?"

Radar returned to his desk. "Apparently Chief Pak didn't like what you and Major Houlihan had to say about his work on the case."

"Oh, for crying out loud!" Hawkeye tagged along as Radar made another trip to the file cabinets. "All we did was show him another piece of evidence. He does want evidence, doesn't he? Forgive me, but I was under the impression that, back home at least, detectives often use evidence to help round out their cases. I wasn't out to impugn his policehood."

"It's no good yelling at me, Hawkeye. I'm just telling you what happened."

"I know." Hawkeye made an effort to slow down. "I'm not yelling at you, Radar. Listen, can you tell me where Colonel Potter went?"

"I'm not sure." Radar slammed the cabinet drawer, then returned to his desk. "I think he was gonna take the Paks out for dinner and drinks. He said he was looking for a place that specialized in humble pie."

Hawkeye clamped down on his irritation. "Unfortunately, he's not here for me to tell him that his anticipated need for such a repast is greatly exaggerated."

Radar squared a stack of papers. "Am I supposed to know what you're talking about, sir?"

"Not really." Hawkeye hitched a hip over the edge of Radar's desk. "Tell me this, did you know if Pak was going to check that bracelet for fingerprints?"

Radar looked at Hawkeye unhappily. "He did already."

Hawkeye knew what the answer would be before he asked. "And?"

"Nothing," said Radar gloomily. "Just a bunch of smudges." Radar's face so keenly showed his disappointment that it was almost painful to look at him.

Hawkeye refused to be discouraged. He clapped his young friend on the shoulder. "Buck up, Radar. I might have uncovered another suspect."

"Really, sir?" Radar's voice held little enthusiasm. Clearly the recent setbacks had taken their toll on his optimism.

"Do you know Private Panatela's unit?"

"Sure. They're defending the ridges outside of Koyang-ni, about eight miles west of here."

"Can you get their clerk on the phone?"

"I'll try. But there was action in that area only last week. The lines could be down, or they might be on the move or something."

"Try, Radar."

"Yes, sir."

Hawkeye paced as the call went through. He turned quickly when Radar got a response.

"It's Corporal Keotunian," said Radar, handing him the phone.

Hawkeye snatched it up. "Corporal? Captain Pierce here, MASH 4077th."

"Yeah, Captain?" The raspy growl was hardly inviting. "What do you want?"

Hawkeye frowned at the man's attitude. "I want to ask you some questions about Private Panatela."

"Who?"

"Daniel Panatela, PFC. He's assigned to your unit, isn't he?"

"Look, Captain. I already told the police, I don't know nothin' about him. You want to talk to him, you gotta wait 'til he gets back from maneuvers, same as everybody else."

Hawkeye felt his anger making a return appearance. "I don't want to talk to him. I just want to ask you who his buddies are."

"Why don't you ask Corporal Randall?" sneered the man.

"_Who?_"

"Hey, I was sure you'd remember Randall. The gooks got him at the end of a recon mission. Their knives messed him up pretty bad -- but that's not what killed him, right, Doc?"

Hawkeye went cold. Corporal Randall was Bigelow's morphine victim. Hawkeye hadn't realized that he and Panatela had belonged to the same outfit.

Hawkeye drew a breath. "Listen, I'm sorry about that. The medicine was tainted; we're not sure how."

"Accidents happen, don't they, Doc?"

"Well, not very often, but sometimes, yes, they do." The whole conversation had shifted for Hawkeye, now that he understood the source of Keotunian's belligerence. Considering what had happened, Hawkeye could hardly blame him. "Was Randall a buddy of yours?"

Like a flicker of lightning, a memory flashed across Hawkeye's brain. His own words came back to him in a reverberating echo: _I take it that Corporal Randall is a buddy of yours. And with the words came the image of a face: haggard, dirt-smeared, the blue eyes shifting nervously under tousled, dirty blond hair. A man of thin-to-medium build who was only slightly taller than Hawkeye._

Hawkeye took a fresh grip on the phone. "Corporal, listen, forget that question. Tell me this: is a Sergeant High assigned to your unit?"

"Who?"

"High. I'm not sure how you spell it." 

"We ain't got no Sergeant High."

Hawkeye thought quickly. "He might be a private, not a sergeant. Can you check?"

"I s'pose," the man grumbled.

Hawkeye waited tensely. Radar, alerted by Hawkeye's change of mood, drifted closer. "Are you onto something, sir?"

Before Hawkeye could answer, Keotunian returned. "We don't got any Highs," he said. "That's H-I or H-I-G-H."

"Try H-Y," Radar whispered.

Hawkeye said into the phone, "Can you check H-Y?"

More grumbling came over the line, and the sound of folders shuffling. "No H-Y either."

Hawkeye said, "How about --"

"Look, Doc, I'm telling ya. We ain't got nobody here by that name."

"But you have photographs," said Hawkeye. "In their files."

The man said across Radar's whispered warning, "Those files are confidential, Doc."

"But they contain their physical descriptions --"

"Listen, Doc, nobody gets into those files but me and my CO. You want more than that, you gotta get higher authorization. Goodbye."

"Wait --" The line went dead in Hawkeye's hand. Thoughtfully Hawkeye replaced the receiver. He rose slowly, his whole body thrumming like a plucked string.

Radar gazed at him intently. "What is it, sir?"

"Sergeant High." The strength of his intuition suffused Hawkeye with certainty. He looked down at Radar. "`High' is another word for `Tall.'"

Radar watched wide-eyed. "Is it, sir?"

Hawkeye shook his head with wonder. "They all knew each other."

Radar's voice was hushed. "Who knew who, sir?"

"The Three Strangers: Randall, Panatela, and High."

Radar began to look a little desperate. "Three ... strangers, sir?"

The door burst open and Corporal Klinger walked in. His recently ravaged outfit had been exchanged for something considerably more casual. Klinger now wore a black-and-white checked baby doll dress with a ruffled skirt, accessorized with a lime-green scarf and matching earrings. Saddle shoes and the ever-present rifle completed the ensemble.

"A bit understated for you, isn't it, Klinger?" Hawkeye commented.

"Major Burns insisted that I put on something decent in front of the police," Klinger replied. "For once I happened to agree with him. My former outfit was a disgrace."

Klinger's first sentence Hawkeye's caught attention. "Are the police still in camp?"

"No, that's what I came to tell the corporal," said Klinger. "All nonmilitary personnel are now off the base."

"I take it they didn't find anything."

Klinger twiddled his fingers. "They're clearly lacking the Klinger touch."

Radar said, "Captain Pierce thinks he knows who the killer is again."

Hawkeye couldn't help cringing at the word "again." Judging from Klinger's noncommittal expression, their colorful sentry had his doubts as well.

"No fooling, sir?" Klinger asked politely.

Hawkeye started to pace. "Okay, I may have been wrong about Panatela, but this time I'm sure. Sergeant High was in post-op that morning. That places him in camp right near the scene of the crime at an hour exactly consistent with Lieutenant Carlyle's time of death."

Klinger wrinkled his brow. "Who's Sergeant High?"

"He's three of the strangers," said Radar softly.

"I talked to him," said Hawkeye. "I didn't notice it at the time, but I suppose he could be mistaken for BJ, if you didn't see him clearly and didn't know either of them personally."

"So you think he's our serial killer?" said Klinger.

"Oh, he's more serial than anyone previously suspected," said Hawkeye. "He killed Corporal Randall."

Klinger's eyes bulged. "What?"

Radar stared beside him. "How?"

"I remember now." Hawkeye paced furiously. "He came in right after Bigelow mentioned that Randall was due for morphine soon. He certainly overheard that."

Radar said, "But I thought Lieutenant Carlyle mixed up the morphine wrong."

"That's what everyone _thinks,_" said Hawkeye. "Even though nobody can figure out how she could have made that mistake. Well, I don't think she made a mistake. I think High overheard Bigelow's comment. She had been stocking the supply cabinet; it was right near the door, still open. He could easily have hidden behind the curtain when he pretended to leave, then doctored the two morphine bottles closest to the front of the supply cabinet, convinced that Bigelow would use one of them to give Randall his shot."

"Where'd he get the morphine?" asked Klinger.

"High was dealing on the black market. Mostly drugs, as Rosie recalled. It's not so improbable to believe that he might have had some on him at the time. Damn!"

Radar's eyes were like saucers. "What is it, sir?"

"The door. It opened and closed behind me when I went to get coffee."

"The door opened and closed," said Klinger flatly. "Is that unusual, sir?"

"Don't you see?" Hawkeye said excitedly. "I heard a noise. When I looked around, no one was there. I'll bet it was High, peeking out the door to post-op before making his escape. When he saw me there, he closed the door and waited a few minutes until the coast was clear." He smacked a fist into his palm. "If only I'd opened that door, as I'd almost started to. I would have seen High right there."

"Why would he want to kill Randall?" asked Klinger.

"That part I'm not sure about," said Hawkeye. "But they must have had some sort of falling out among themselves. For all we know, he even may have been responsible for Corporal Randall's injuries; when he failed to kill him in the field, he came here to finish the job. It might also explain why Lieutenant Carlyle was so agitated the day before."

"What are we gonna do?" asked Radar.

"Obviously," said Klinger, "we gotta tell the cops about this Sergeant High."

Hawkeye shook his head, still pacing. "Sergeant High is an alias, probably something Tall has used before in his illicit dealings."

"The clerk at Randall's unit didn't know nothing about him," Radar explained.

"Okay," said Klinger, "now who's Tall?"

"Another alias," said Hawkeye. "These guys called themselves the Three Strangers: Tall, Dark, and Handsome."

"Cute," said Klinger.

"Well, we gotta do something!" Radar wailed.

"If I could only look at those personnel records," Hawkeye muttered, "I'd be able to identify this Sergeant High myself, regardless of any alias."

"I don't think Corporal Keotunian will show you his files," said Radar glumly, "on account of as he sort of kinda hates your guts."

Klinger looked puzzled. "Why does Keotunian hate the captain?"

"Because he thinks our unit killed Corporal Randall." Hawkeye mulled. "Say, Radar, what have we got in the bribery department?"

"I'll see." Radar hurried to the big file cabinet and pulled out the quartermasters sheet. He set it on the desk to flip through it, while Hawkeye and Klinger hovered over either shoulder. 

Klinger pointed. "Ham. That might be good."

"I could throw in some chocolate my ma sent me," said Radar. 

"How about a used pair of lavender gloves?" Klinger offered.

"Not a chance," said Hawkeye. "The last thing that unit needs is anything that would help mask their fingerprints."

"I know!" Radar pulled open his bottom desk drawer. Pawing aside some papers, he lifted out a slim, rectangular box. The musky odor hitting Hawkeye's nostrils notified him of its contents before Radar had a chance to speak.

"I got these cigars left over," said Radar. "They belonged to Colonel Blake."

The mention of their former CO threw a pall on the conversation. Hawkeye asked, "Radar, are you sure you want to part with them?"

"I guess so, sir," said Radar. "I don't think I wanna smoke anymore."

Hawkeye placed a hand on his shoulder. "You're a good man, Corporal O'Reilly."

"I do my best, sir," Radar replied despondently.

Hawkeye patted Radar's shoulder briskly. "You do very well. Now, gather up our Care package and requisition a jeep. We're heading out to win Corporal Keotunian's heart through his stomach -- or his lungs, as the case may be."

Klinger frowned. "You're sure you don't want to tell the police about this first?"

"Positive. Pak went on the warpath just because I suggested that he look up Danny boy's last name. There's no way I'm going to put him onto Sergeant High's trail until I'm one-hundred percent certain that I've got the right man. Radar?"

The 4077th's clerk was stuffing his personal chocolate into the same bag he'd used for the cigar box. "Almost ready, sir. Hey, Klinger, can you watch the office for me?"

Klinger set his rifle against the wall and strutted toward the desk. "A Klinger is proud to serve!"

"Since when?" said Hawkeye. "Radar, do you know how to find this place?"

"Oh, yeah, sir, I've seen the maps and everything. It gets a little hairy going through the mountains, but I can find it okay."

"Then let's get going, and see if we can help Justice be a little less blind."


	8. Small Fry

**8. Small Fry**

Margaret Houlihan was in no mood for laxness or incompetence. Usually her nurses could handle things fine. Why someone had to pick this particular moment to become suddenly helpless was pushing her limits.

Kellye guided her back towards the supply tent. When they were nearly there, Margaret saw Frank Burns exiting Potter's office. He spotted her, and altered his course to intercept her.

"Oh, Major!" he called, drawing out the last syllable in a warbling trill.

Margaret barely stifled her impatience. She didn't have time for all the things she _had_ to do, let alone figure out what games Frank was up to today. Margaret said to the woman beside her, "Thank you, Lieutenant. I'll join you inside shortly."

Kellye looked defeated. "Yes, m'am." She slipped inside the tent.

Frank walked toward Margaret with a jaunty step, smirking with self satisfaction. 

Margaret let her irritation show in her face and voice. "What _is_ it, Frank?"

Frank gave her an exaggerated pout. "What's wrong, Angel Puss?"

"Nothing. I'm just very busy, Frank."

Frank's eyes shifted to either side. Satisfied that they were unobserved, he stepped closer and put his arms around her waist. Alarmed, Margaret brushed him away. "Frank, someone will see us!"

"Oh, Margaret. I've missed you so much."

Margaret glanced around. A couple of corpsmen had started across the compound, but she didn't think they'd seen anything. "Frank, this isn't the time."

"Of course not. And it won't _be the time for quite some time, tonight."_

Margaret had been listening with only half an ear, but Frank's latest statement caught her off guard. Surprised, she looked back at his face. "What do you mean?"

Frank inspected his fingernails. "Only that I'll be busy myself for a while -- since Colonel Potter has left _me in command."_

Margaret's annoyance evaporated in a cloud of satisfaction. "Frank, that's wonderful!"

Frank giggled and hunched his shoulders. "Isn't it?"

Margaret couldn't help but smile. "But why, Frank?"

"He's gone into town to try to placate those old Paks." Frank effected a haughty air. "Personally, I don't think this unit owes them an apology. It's not our fault that their police force is only as efficient as everything else we've seen in this throwback country."

Margaret's happiness suffered a minor setback when she realized that she still had business to attend to. "Frank, I've got to check on my nurses' progress. I'll only be a minute."

"Don't rush yourself, Sweetie Buns," said Frank, magnanimous now that he had made his announcement. "I'll be tied up myself for a while. I've got to supervise these police -- make sure they don't, you know, see anything they're not supposed to see."

Margaret couldn't imagine what military secrets might be lurking out back of the motor pool, but didn't argue. Frank's immediate business would give her time to check out this supply problem without his ... supervision.

"All right, Frank. I'll join you as soon as I'm free."

Frank bobbed his eyebrows at her. "I'll be waiting." He giggled again, then scampered off toward the motor pool.

Margaret swept a hand over her head, making sure that her hair was in place, before pulling open the door to the supply tent and marching inside.

"All right, ladies, what seems to be the matter?" she said automatically, before halting in shock.

The place was a shambles. Open boxes lay on every available surface, including any unused spaces on the shelves. Half her team was there, more than the three nurses she'd originally assigned to this detail. All of them looked toward her with frightened eyes.

Kellye, as shift leader, approached her. "Major, we have a problem."

"What happened?"

"It's a lot of these bottles." Kellye held out the one she happened to have in her hand. "They're empty."

Margaret went cold. Supplies were her responsibility. "Empty?"

"Yes, m'am." Kellye turned back to the shelves. "We were inventorying the contents of these boxes. But when we lifted some of them down, they felt light. So we started checking. All the bottles are inside. You can see them." Kellye tilted a box toward her. It was completely filled with neatly labeled bottles. 

"Yes, I see them, Lieutenant."

Kellye lifted a bottle out and shook it. There was no sound. "Someone removed the contents, then resealed the bottles."

"Whoever did it hid their tracks well," said Bigelow. "The boxes that we were already using were left alone. For the unused boxes, the first row of medication was left intact, but the back rows were missing. Whoever opened a new box might use it for days before coming across one of the empty bottles."

Margaret mentally reeled over the potentially disastrous consequences. "What medications are missing, Lieutenant?"

Wilson checked a clipboard. "Penicillin, tetracycline, streptomycin, morphine --"

Margaret put up a hand. "Thank you, Lieutenant." Slowly she walked further into the room. She picked up one of the sabotaged boxes. The empty bottles gave it some weight, but it did feel light to the experienced hand.

"Whoever did this knew what they were doing," said Bigelow. "They picked the boxes that wouldn't be discovered for the longest length of time."

Margaret stared into the box. "In other words, you think it's a nurse."

"At least it was someone who was familiar with our inventory procedures," said Kellye. 

Margaret turned away. She could feel the eyes of her team on her back as she thought. "Have you been able to ascertain how much medicine is missing?"

"I think so, m'am," answered Kellye. "We've pulled everything down. The missing medication appears to be limited to these boxes."

Since there were boxes nearly everywhere, Margaret could only assume that the amount of medication missing was appalling. She turned back to survey the damage. "How bad is it?"

Kellye's eyes looked like they were about to overflow. "One or two weeks' worth for some, maybe three weeks' for others."

Margaret nodded. "I assume that there are some bottles that you haven't touched yet?"

Kellye exchanged glances with her coworkers. "Yes, m'am."

"Good. Some police officers happen to be on the grounds. It can't hurt for them to try to take fingerprints from some of these bottles."

Bigelow said, "Do you want to fingerprint us, too, Major?"

"I'll let you know if I think that's necessary, Lieutenant." Margaret took a breath and stepped back toward the door. "Wilson, I want a complete inventory of everything that's missing. Prepare an order to replace the most critical supplies immediately."

"Yes, m'am."

"The rest of you, separate the bottles that still contain medication. Check the contents in the lab; make sure that each bottle contains what the label says it does. We don't want any more foul ups."

"Yes, m'am," chorused the group.

"Leave the empty bottles undisturbed. I'll see if we can get a fingerprints expert in here. Carry on."

Margaret stepped outside the supply tent. She'd hardly shut the door when she fell back against it, breathing hard. All those drugs, missing! There was little doubt in her mind who the culprit was. Only one of her nurses that she knew of had a boyfriend who was dealing drugs on the black market. Perhaps the medical examiner in Seoul could get the fingerprints off the body, if he hadn't already. Margaret felt shaky, and a little sick. This would look bad, very bad. She'd need to build some more safeguards into their supply-management procedures to make sure this couldn't happen again.

Margaret steadied herself, then set off for the motor pool. She'd have to clear it with Frank before she called in any fingerprint experts. In fact, she wasn't even sure if Frank would go for it. He was a proud officer, and very sensitive about things that went on under his command. Colonel Potter, when he found out, would likely have a great deal to say. He would almost certainly put a reprimand in her file. Margaret was determined to face the music. After all, supplies were her responsibility. Still, part of her couldn't help feeling a bit resentful. The most uncharitable part of her reflected that perhaps Ellie Carlyle hadn't been such an innocent victim as she had first appeared.

Margaret rounded the building to reach the motor pool. To her surprise, only Goldman was there, standing sentry. 

She walked up to him. "What happened to the police?"

"They just finished, m'am," said Goldman. "Major Burns is walking them to the gate."

"Did they find anything?"

Goldman shrugged. "Nothing that I noticed, Major."

"Thank you, Private."

Margaret cut behind the hospital, although she wasn't really interested in saving time. The plundered inventory still staggered her; she wanted to run into as few people as possible until she'd had a little time to regain more of her typical control. She took it slow, breathing deeply to restore her composure.

Margaret emerged at the far end of the compound. Even from this distance she could see that there was no one near the gate. She gazed at the empty road, then thoughtfully retraced her steps. She entered the hospital through the scrub room door, then made her way through the vacant building to Potter's office. When she finally reached it, she was surprised to see Klinger, not Radar, behind the outer desk. 

She paused in the doorway. "Have you seen Major Burns?"

Klinger jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward Potter's door. "He's in there. Warming his buns in the big chair."

Margaret stiffened. "Don't be insolent, Corporal!"

Klinger spread his hands. "I'm sorry, Major. It just comes so easily to me."

Margaret headed toward Potter's office. "Why are you here, anyway? Where is Corporal O'Reilly?" 

"You just missed him, Major," said Klinger. "He and Captain Pierce set off for Private Panatela's unit. Captain Pierce found out who the murderer is."

Margaret jerked to a stop. She turned toward Klinger, amazed. "How did he find _that_ out?"

Klinger rotated his chair to face her. He was wearing some atrocious black-and-white thing with a garish green scarf and earrings; she tried not to let it distract her. "There's this guy, Sergeant High, only that's not his real name. Captain Pierce figured out that he was buddies with Corporal Randall. The two of them along with Panatela used to be called the Three Strangers. High was Tall, only that's not his real name either."

Margaret's head was in a whirl, but she could still listen. "Yes, I know about the Three Strangers. Go on, Corporal."

"Well, Captain Pierce saw High in the post-op that morning, right about the time Lieutenant Carlyle was killed. He figured that High killed Randall, too, by messing with the bottles in the supply cabinet. Lieutenant Carlyle and Nurse Bigelow had nothing to do with it."

Margaret was stunned at the progress that had been made in just a few minutes, but alarmed at the course of action that was developing. Pierce was often impulsive, but seldom foolhardy. "Surely Captain Pierce doesn't intend to confront Sergeant High?"

"Naw," said Klinger. "Most of that unit's out on maneuvers anyway. No, they're gonna see the clerk." He dropped his voice to a confidential level. "Actually, they're gonna try to bribe him into showing them the company files. Captain Pierce wants to get a positive ID before telling the police about this High guy."

"Couldn't he get confirmation over the phone?"

"Not without the guy's name. The clerk got PO'd and quit talking."

"I see." Margaret was still troubled. She understood Pierce's reluctance to go to the police with unproven evidence again, but it still seemed awfully risky to put himself in such close proximity to Sergeant High. High, or Tall, or whatever his name was, would suspect that Pierce was onto him the minute he saw him poking around his unit. Unbidden, the recollection of Tall's other nickname, provided by Rosie, came to mind: Mean.

Margaret said, "Corporal, can you get through to Private Panatela's unit again?"

Klinger shrugged. "I think so, Major. What for?"

"I'd feel a lot better if I knew for certain that Sergeant High was really out on maneuvers."

"Well, okay. But without his real name, how are you gonna find out?"

"Just get me the unit, Corporal."

"As you wish, oh One with the Sweet but Mighty Voice."

It took Klinger a couple of minutes to place the call, during which Margaret plotted her strategy. By the time Klinger handed her the phone, she was ready. "Corporal Keotunian," he said.

Margaret took the phone. She pasted a smile onto her face before lilting into the receiver, "Corporal Keotunian! Major Margaret Houlihan. How nice to talk to you."

Keotunian answered with a gravelly voice, "In what way?"

"Well," Margaret said with manufactured cheer, "I hear that you're the man with all the answers."

"Look, Major," growled Keotunian, "I already told you people, I don't know no Sergeant High." 

"Oh, I'm not looking for a Sergeant High." Margaret dropped the tone of her voice toward the sultry end of the spectrum. "I'm looking for somebody who's ... Tall."

"Tall," the man repeated.

"Tall," said Margaret. "A private, perhaps?"

The man paused. "Lady, we got three hundred guys here. Can you try and be a little more specific?"

Margaret bit back her disappointment. She had hoped that Keotunian would respond to the nickname "Tall." Instead, she carried on in a warm, deep voice. "Well, he's tall," she began. "Blond hair, blue-eyes --"

"Major, is everybody in your unit nuts?"

She added a little desperately, "He's one of the Three Strangers --"

"Who did you say, Stranges?"

Margaret stopped, puzzled. "I said, `the Three Strangers.'"

"Nope," said Keotunian. "We only got the one."

Margaret stared blankly. "The one what?"

"Stranges. Isn't that who you said? But we only got one, not three of them."

"Oh, Stranges." Margaret felt herself floundering. "Yes, that might be who I mean. Is he tall?"

"Kinda tall. What do you care? What's this all about?"

"Uh, I need to verify some facts for our files," said Margaret. "It's a ... medical cross-check."

"Stranges, huh? Hold on."

Margaret held the phone tensely. Klinger was watching intently beside her.

There came a rustling noise, then Keotunian's voice came back on the line. "All right, I got the file for Stranges, first name Orrin, Private. Is he the one you need?"

"I think so. Can you confirm his physical description?"

"It says here," paper rustled. "Six-foot-three, one-eighty pounds, hair blond, eyes blue. That the guy?"

Margaret felt her heart pounding. "I think he's the right one. Does his record say anything about any disciplinary problems or arrests?"

"Sorry, Major. That stuff's confidential."

"Of course." Another thought struck her. "Can you tell me his blood type?"

"It says here ... B positive."

"B positive." Margaret felt a chill.

"That do it for you, Major?"

"Uh, yes. Be sure and tell Private Stranges to come in for a routine blood test when he gets back from maneuvers."

"Stranges ain't on maneuvers."

Margaret froze. "He's not?"

"No, m'am. His squad got into some action last week. He was the last man out, except for Corporal Randall." Keotunian's voice grew hard. "I expect you know all about Corporal Randall."

_More than you do, Margaret thought. "Yes. We're looking into his death."_

"You are? Good. Well, anyway, Stranges was a little beat up and the squad leader let him off the detail. He's probably around here somewhere if you want to talk to him."

"No!" Margaret almost shouted. She forced herself to calm down. "That's quite all right, Corporal. This is only a routine check and I don't want to alarm him in any way. We'll send a ... doctor out there to do the blood draw. A Captain Pierce."

"Pierce. I just talked to him."

"Yes. Well, he's on his way. When he gets there, will you be sure to tell him that I talked to you and told him to check Stranges' file?"

"I thought he was looking for this High guy."

"Just tell him that Stranges is Tall," said Margaret.

"Stranges is tall," Keotunian repeated. "Boy, you people really have a thing about height."

"Yes, we're very big on height," said Margaret, then winced. "But please, Corporal. Don't forget to tell Captain Pierce."

"I'll tell him as soon as he arrives."

"Thank you, Corporal."

"Don't mention it. And let me know how your investigation about Randall turns out."

"We'll keep you informed. Houlihan out."

Margaret threw down the phone. Waves of nervousness washed through her, from her belly to her fingertips and back again. 

"Klinger," she said in a dead-calm voice, "I want you to get Private Goldman. He should still be out by the motor pool. Take him with you to the supply tent. Tell my nurses that I don't want any of them to go anywhere in less than groups of three. Tell Bigelow, Wilson, and Kellye that under no circumstances are they to stay in their quarters this evening. Have them move whatever essentials they need to the VIP tent. But before that, I want you and Goldman to escort Lieutenant Bigelow here."

Klinger watched her keenly. "You think this Stranges guy might try and come here tonight?"

Margaret flexed her fingers. "I don't know what he might do, but he's around and nearby and I don't want to take any chances."

"We could double the night patrol," said Klinger.

"Thank you, Corporal. See to it."

"Right away, Major!" Klinger seized his rifle, and bolted out the door.

Margaret took a steadying breath. The knowledge of the killer's true identity, as well as the fact that Captain Pierce was at this moment driving straight toward him, had made her giddy. She straightened her spine, threw back her head, and pushed open Potter's door.

Frank sat with Potter's chair tipped back and his feet on the desk, paging through the daily reports. When he saw Margaret, he abruptly dropped his feet to the floor and set the file aside. "Margaret! Sweetums! I was beginning to think you would _never get here."_

Margaret approached the desk. "Frank, we have a serious problem."

"We certainly do." Frank hopped up and came around the desk. "It's been ages since I've seen you. Are you free now?" He stooped to nuzzle her neck.

Margaret stepped back. "Frank, this is serious."

Frank reached for her again. "So am I."

"No, really, Frank." Margaret pushed him away. "We have a _serious_ serious problem."

Frank frowned. "Well, what is it?"

"Captain Pierce has discovered the location and alias of the real murderer, and he's driving this minute to the man's unit to verify his identity."

Frank's face went red. "How dare Pierce leave this camp without permission!"

Margaret blinked. "Frank, if the killer sees Captain Pierce there, he might try to harm him."

"Well, that's what Pierce gets for leaving without checking with me."

Margaret was befuddled. Sometimes Frank's priorities seemed a little skewed. "Frank, we can't let Captain Pierce run blindly into danger."

Frank prowled back toward the desk. "Oh, yes, we can. I'm sick and tired of Mr. High and Mighty going behind my back all the time, doing whatever he pleases!"

"It's not as if Captain Pierce sneaked off to a geisha house, Frank. He's trying to solve Lieutenant Carlyle's murder."

"Lieutenant Carlyle's murder," mocked Frank in a high voice. He switched back to his regular tone. "You've been going on about nothing _but_ that stupid murder for days. For Pete's sake, Margaret, you act as if it's a matter of life or death!"

Margaret couldn't believe what she was hearing. "It is."

"Oh, Honey Bunch." Frank abandoned his belligerent tone for that bleating whine he adopted whenever he wanted to soften her up. "Can't you forget about the murder for one evening? I mean, what about me, and _my needs? Don't they deserve a little consideration from you as well?" He reached for her again._

Margaret stepped toward the door. "Frank, as the commander of this post, you have a responsibility for the safety of your men."

Frank pulled his mouth to one side. "Not Pierce again?"

Margaret was firm. "He and Corporal O'Reilly should be warned."

"Oh, Pierce's little four-eyed friend went with him?"

"Major," said Margaret. "Think about the trouble you'll be in if you refuse to help them."

"The trouble _I'll_ be in? Consider this." Frank ticked off the points on his fingers. "First of all, Pierce and O'Reilly had no authorization to leave the base. Two, I don't think the danger is anywhere near as great as you say. And third, even if it is, it isn't my responsibility, and it serves them both right!"

Margaret made one last effort. "Frank, will you be a man, and help them?"

Frank put on a smile. "No, but I'll be a man and help _you_."

Margaret slapped his face. Frank stared at her, astounded. "Margaret. Angel Toes."

"You better stay out of my way, Frank," she said, "or you might find these Angel Toes in a place you didn't expect!"

Frank jumped back, legs together and hands crossed over his lap. Margaret banged through the door to the outer office.

Klinger and Goldman stood there, flanking a worried-looking Bigelow. "Major," she said, "Klinger told me that Captain Pierce has found the murderer. Is that true?"

"I believe so, Lieutenant. Just as a precaution, for your own safety, I'd like for you and your roommates to stay in the VIP tent tonight."

Bigelow looked puzzled. "Why are you worried about _our safety, Major?"_

"Because this man Stranges must know that you can identify him."

"Stranges?"

"He came into post-op the morning of the murder. He called himself Sergeant High." She paused. "You _must have seen him."_

Bigelow shrugged helplessly. "I remember him coming in, Major, but I really didn't notice him. I was working on Corporal Randall."

"But Captain Pierce spoke with him," said Margaret.

"Yes, Major. I remember that. But Captain Pierce was standing between us. I didn't really get a good look at the man's face."

Margaret felt suddenly cold. She looked over at Goldman. "Private, did you see the man in question anywhere on the grounds that morning?"

Goldman looked miserable. "No, m'am. I didn't see anything."

"No one who looked like Captain Hunnicutt?"

"Only Captain Hunnicutt."

"Very well." Margaret took a breath. "Goldman, you are to stand guard over Nurse Bigelow until Stranges is taken into custody. She can't identify him, but Stranges may not know that. Her safety is your responsibility. You got that, Private?"

Goldman stood at attention. "Yes, m'am!"

"Dismissed."

Bigelow looked at Margaret uneasily, but Margaret turned decisively to Klinger. Bigelow dipped her head, and exited through the door that Goldman held open for her.

"Klinger," said Margaret, "how fast can you drive?"

"As fast as you need me to, Major." Klinger spoke with a grim earnestness that belied his ridiculous outfit. 

"Good. We'll try to overtake Pierce's jeep before he reaches Stranges' camp. It's possible that Stranges won't notice him, but I'd rather not take that risk. We'll bring Pierce back here, and let the police handle bringing Stranges in."

Klinger hoisted his rifle. "You really think that this guy might try and hurt the captain?"

"The man is a proven killer," Margaret said. "How do you think he'll react to meeting the only eye-witness who can connect him to three different murders?"


	9. Smalltime

**9. Smalltime**

The sun sank toward the mountains in the west, throwing the road into shadow whenever Radar took the jeep around an east-facing bend. Hawkeye sat back in the passenger seat and let the corporal handle the navigation. His mind was occupied with how he was going to butter up the crusty Corporal Keotunian, and which of his gifts might be best received. A small part of his brain niggled over what to do if Sergeant High put in an appearance, but Hawkeye wasn't too concerned about that. Even with most of the unit gone, the camp would be full of people -- far too public a place for a murder, even considering that the killer had plenty of experience.

The road climbed steadily as Radar headed for the mountain-based unit. Their speed had been gradually decreasing as a result. The road was wide enough to accommodate trucks, or so Hawkeye assumed. However, it looked treacherous inasmuch as the left-hand margin was crumbling down the mountainside. Radar kept the jeep as far as he could to the right, so the tires spit gravel and occasionally jounced over a larger rock that had tumbled onto the dirt roadway from the steep slope above. 

The road curved hard to the right, and Radar geared down. Hawkeye cast another look at the sky, and decided to say something. "You know, Radar, if you slow down much more, we won't be able to finish this trip before dark."

"We're almost there, sir."

"I figured, but we still have to get home tonight. You want to travel this road by moonlight?"

Radar gripped the steering wheel like it was about to escape. "I'm sorry, sir, but it gets really narrow here. I don't want to fall off the cliff."

"Radar, that sheer drop to the left is an illusion."

Radar's mouth was grim. "That's not an illusion, sir, it's a canyon."

Hawkeye shifted in his seat. "Radar, it only _looks_ like a sheer drop because we're up on the road. These mountain roads always look as if you're going to fall to your death, but they're perfectly safe."

"I'm from Iowa, sir. I don't see a lot of mountain roads."

"If you were to get out on foot right now, you'd find out that there are plenty of ledges and footholds over there to keep you from falling."

"Seeing as we're right now in a jeep, I don't see how footholds are going to help us much if the whole thing goes over."

Hawkeye gave Radar a friendly nod. "Go ahead. Nudge it up a little."

"Wait 'til we're around this curve."

"Spoil sport."

Radar negotiated the bend. The road ran flat for a while. Ahead it bent to the left, diving into the shade of the mountain, before dipping down toward a sharp right-hand curve. As requested, Radar hit the gas. With his increased speed, he drifted more toward the center of the road to avoid the boulders scattered on the right-hand margin. Hawkeye relaxed and let his mind drift.

The jeep took the curve at a decent speed, bursting from shadow into the full light of the westering sun. Hawkeye was temporarily blinded, and surely Radar was as well. The corporal jerked the wheel to the right so the jeep rode up over the boulders at the road's edge. Suddenly the entire vehicle jumped into the air. Hawkeye had a crazy moment of disorientation, as if the jeep was driving straight up into the sky, before gravity claimed them all and sent them crashing to earth.

As Hawkeye fell, his chief worry was that the jeep might crush him. He twisted around in his seat to try to cover up for the impact. It came -- a sickening smack on the side of his head that momentarily stunned him and left his ears ringing. The motor kicked and died, leaving only the burnt smell of oil and exhaust fumes as a memory. Dust curled through the air in a smothering pall. Hawkeye coughed, each spasm driving a spike of pain through his skull.

As his vision cleared, he realized that he was lying half in and half out of the jeep. The jeep lay on its side lengthwise across the road, its front grill hanging over empty space. The jeep was canted at an angle, with its front end significantly lower than the rear. As Hawkeye squinted through the dust, he could make out a line of debris under the jeep's lower side. Apparently a mini-landslide had fallen across that part of the road. The angle of the fallen rock was such that it would redirect any vehicle that hit it toward the edge of the cliff. Had they been going any faster, the impact might have tossed them over the side, jeep and all, just as Radar had feared.

The crash had somehow deposited Hawkeye in the back seat. He lay there partly on the jeep's metal side with his upper body in the road. There was a clutter of gear and equipment over his legs -- his medical bag, the gifts for Corporal Keotunian still in their canvas sacks, the cover for the back seat, a heavy toolbox that was currently digging into his shin, the rifle that Radar was required to bring whenever they ventured off base. 

Radar. Hawkeye looked around. Radar wasn't in the jeep.

A rush of fear woke him up. Hawkeye glanced toward the drop on the left, the precipice that he had just finished explaining wasn't so sheer. Through the wafting dust he discerned the top of the brown wool cap that continually decorated the head of the 4077th's pint-sized clerk. Hawkeye hitched himself up to get a better look. Yes, the hat was in place. Radar lay on his back with only his upper body visible, the rest of it angled sharply over the edge of the cliff. His glasses were gone, and his eyes were closed.

Hawkeye shifted, intending to drag himself clear, when he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. They were advancing quickly, unheralded by any cry or call. The shuffling step was accompanied by a skittering of rocks, as if the owner of those footfalls was scrambling down the slope that rose to their right. The body of the jeep was between Hawkeye and the advancing party, for the moment blocking his view. Still, the person's vocally silent approach sounded like trouble to Hawkeye.

Hastily he extricated his legs. The toolbox fell with a crash. The approaching footsteps slowed, as if the person was alerted by the noise. Still there was no cry. Hawkeye was now certain that whoever owned those feet was up to no good. Frantically he looked around. His gaze fell on the rifle. Much as he detested firearms, maybe it could help with a bluff. Hawkeye snatched up the rifle and put it to his shoulder, aiming just above the upper edge of the jeep, a split second before the person running toward him reached it.

A man with a dirt-smudged but still youthful face peered over the edge of the upturned jeep. His blond hair lifted in the wind. His blue eyes widened when he saw Hawkeye, and he immediately ducked out of sight.

"Sergeant High!" Hawkeye called in greeting. "Or should I call you `Private?'"

The man didn't answer. His silence was disconcerting. Hawkeye crouched behind the driver's seat for cover, rifle held at the ready. He made another effort to draw him out. "Does a name change come with that demotion, Private? Another play on the word `Tall,' perhaps?"

There was still no answer. Hawkeye's heart raced as he listened. A stealthy footstep crunched on the gravel near the front of the jeep. Hawkeye quickly changed his position to hunker close to the dashboard, in case High produced a rifle of his own and shot over the top of the jeep at him. 

Hawkeye heard a couple of familiar, telltale clicks. A lighter. Hawkeye was suddenly aware of the pungent odor of gasoline oozing from the wrecked engine.

He popped up over the edge of the jeep, long enough to see High, crouched beside the motor, setting fire to a gasoline-soaked cloth. The glance also showed him that, as he'd suspected, High had his own rifle close at hand -- a high-powered job, not one of those World War II rejects that they gave the MASH units, either. High tossed the burning rag onto the engine.

Hawkeye yelled, "Are you crazy?"

High seized his rifle and brought it around. Before the soldier could get him in his sights, Hawkeye ducked behind the cover of the jeep.

He heard High back away a couple of steps. "Don't try and run, Doc. I can drop you with this before you get five paces."

Hawkeye heard flames licking at the engine on the other side of his steel barricade. He wondered how long it would be before the flames worked their way back to the gas tank and produced a very loud, very unwanted firework. Hawkeye knew it wasn't the heat of the fire that was making him sweat. "What's the idea?" he yelled.

"You know too much, Doc. I figured in your case, an accident would be more believable than having them find you full of lead. But don't try to get smart. I can adjust my plans if necessary."

Hawkeye thought rapidly. "I'm not the only one who knows about you, you know," he hollered, raising his voice not only to cover the distance, but the increasing noise of the flames. 

"They already got a suspect," High answered. "Without you to place me in camp that day, I'm willing to bet the police will go with what they've got."

Hawkeye was getting increasingly desperate. Not only was the fire building, but High seemed to have an admirably practical grasp of the law. A suspect in the hand might very well be worth more to the police than another whose actions, however suspicious, they couldn't in any way prove. Unfortunately, that meant that BJ might end up having to pay for this man's many crimes.

A groan came from the front of the jeep. Hawkeye whipped his head around. Radar had started to awaken. Groggily he brushed his face with his hand. Hawkeye gritted his teeth. Radar's arm was raised; the movement could only draw High's attention to him. Still, if High was currently intent on staging an accident, Hawkeye doubted that High would shoot him. He was probably waiting for the jeep to explode. If that didn't finish Radar off, Hawkeye had no doubts that he would simply push the corporal over the edge. In his stunned condition, Radar hadn't a chance of surviving such a fall.

Flames were now playing along the upper edge of the jeep, their orange tendrils translucent in the afternoon light. They had nearly reached the gas tank. Hawkeye glanced toward the rear of the jeep. The canister of spare gasoline was fastened in its usual place, albeit sideways.

Hawkeye crawled toward it and carefully worked it free. At least this puppy wouldn't add to the explosion, if Hawkeye could get it off in time. He lifted the canister down. It was heavy, and fluid sloshed. It was about two-thirds full. 

Okay, now for the tricky part. Hawkeye undid the cap. His intention was to turn it over so that the gasoline spilled only on the jeep. Hawkeye shuddered to think of the result if any of the liquid were to get on his clothes. Carefully he crouched behind the middle of the jeep, where the flames were going strongly. Leaning forward to avoid splashing his pants or shoes, Hawkeye suddenly upended the canister, then heaved it over the edge of the jeep in High's direction.

The flames roared up, stoked by the new fuel. Hawkeye threw an arm over his face to shield himself from the sudden heat. Away on the far side of the jeep, Hawkeye heard the dull clang of the canister hitting earth. The flames on the jeep were too close and too loud for him to hear any other details. The distraction would work only for a few seconds. Hawkeye slung the rifle over his shoulder, and slithered crabwise toward the cliff's edge. The old single-shot rifle was no match for High's weapon, but it was better than nothing.

Hawkeye scrambled towards Radar. There was blood on the corporal's face, apparently from a cut across the bridge of his nose that may have been caused by his now-missing glasses. Keeping his head low, Hawkeye seized him under the arms.

"Come on, Radar," he whispered huskily. "Time to get up, time to go."

Radar's raised hand flopped limply in his direction, hitting Hawkeye in the face. "That you, Ma?" he whimpered. 

Hawkeye crouched as near to the ground as possible. He could see beyond the front of the jeep now. A smoky trail extended from the jeep farther up the road; clearly the flames had run along the path of the thrown gasoline canister, as Hawkeye had suspected they would. He was too far down the cliff to see the flames themselves. A thick patch of smoke, oily and evil looking, wafted up from an area about fifteen feet beyond the jeep, almost certainly the place where the canister had come to rest. Too bad it hadn't exploded, as Hawkeye had hoped it might. Still, High was out of sight, and that could only be good.

Hawkeye dragged Radar along the cliff edge, trying to get him farther from High's side of the jeep. "Come on, Radar, move!" he whispered urgently. "You gotta help me now."

Radar groaned, but didn't open his eyes.

Hawkeye lowered his feet over the edge and cast about for a foothold. Unfortunately, the mountainside was pretty steep here. It wasn't a straight drop, but damn near. If High knew this road well, as he would if he'd been stationed here long, then he certainly knew the best spot to pick for his "accident." 

The stones gave way under Hawkeye's feet as he tried to put his weight on them. The rocks clung loosely to the dry soil, breaking away at the slightest strain. Hawkeye lay on his belly, his arms still around Radar, groping for a place to put his feet. He looked up, and saw High looking right at him.

Hawkeye ducked out of reflex. The soldier's face was partly obscured by the intervening smoke, but the blueness of his eyes came through. He held still a moment, startled, then started to run in Hawkeye's direction.

The shot of adrenaline through his veins gave Hawkeye a burst of strength. Scrambling furiously, he hauled Radar a couple of feet sideways, back behind the jeep. The approaching footsteps halted just on the other side of the burning vehicle.

They were hardly safe, but at least they had a little more time. Ironically, the burning jeep protected them from any direct assault. High would have to climb up the cliff side around its smoldering tailgate before he could get at them. However, the ticking bomb nature of the jeep made it unreliable as a source of shelter. 

Hawkeye left Radar a moment to scout a possible area of descent. A huge boulder jutted from the cliff several feet behind the jeep; it could act as a ledge. It was a five-foot drop to reach it, but anything farther away than that would certainly expose them to High's rifle. Hugging the edge of the cliff, Hawkeye crawled back to Radar. The young man had begun to stir, moving his limbs and turning his head, though his eyes remained shut. Clouds of smoke from the jeep drifted over him, reeking of burning cloth and plastic and Radar's chocolate bars.

Hawkeye worked an arm under his shoulders. "All right, Radar. Time for our vanishing act."

Radar said groggily, "That you, Colonel Blake?"

Hawkeye winced. "No. Now, get moving, before we both see him a lot sooner than either of us expected."

"I feel sick," said Radar.

"Just hang onto me," said Hawkeye. "Give me your arm."

He flopped one of Radar's arms over his shoulder, then started dragging him towards the ledge. To Hawkeye's relief, Radar, however muzzily, started helping him along, scooting along weakly with his free arm and his legs. He even squinted, with his eyes cracked open a slit. 

Hawkeye left him sprawled on the cliff's edge as he stretched down a leg toward the boulder. Cautiously he eased his weight onto it; it felt reassuringly solid. He rested his full weight on it, then reached up for Radar. "Just slide down easy," he whispered. "Feet first."

Groggily Radar got both his feet on the rock. He sank down immediately, resting his back against the cliff wall, his head falling forward against his bent knees. Hawkeye knelt beside him and unslung the rifle. He took aim at the top of the cliff. If High's face peeked over that edge, Hawkeye was prepared to fire.

"Hawkeye?" Radar mumbled between his knees. "What's happening?"

Hawkeye anxiously scanned the rim, expecting the head of his enemy to appear at any moment against the clean blue sky. "We're being murdered," he said shortly.

"Is that why my head hurts?" Radar bobbed up his head, and gingerly touched the bridge of his nose. The wound had bled a lot, as face cuts will. Radar blinked in bewilderment as his fingers came away streaked with blood.

Keeping an eye on the cliff edge, Hawkeye groped in his pocket for a handkerchief. He pulled it out, snapping it to unfold it while holding up the rifle with his right hand. With the handkerchief open, he pressed it against the cut on Radar's face. 

"Keep pressure on it," he whispered, then returned both hands to the rifle.

Radar held the cloth to his face, sinking forward a little to brace against his knees.

Hawkeye scarcely dared breathe, every muscle tensed for action. It would be a race, when High appeared, as to which of them could pull the trigger first. Hawkeye knew it had damn well better be him. It wasn't just his own life at stake. If he bought it now, Radar, and possibly BJ, were sure to follow.


	10. Small World

**10. Small World**

An unexpected hum drifted through the canyon. Hawkeye tipped his head, listening. It was a high-pitched whine, getting closer. Another jeep was coming up the road. From the sound of the engine, whoever was at the wheel was driving it pretty full out.

Hawkeye's heart began to race. Salvation might be at hand, if he could only keep High from shooting him in the next two minutes. Hawkeye angled his head, trying to hear better. With any luck it would be a whole convoy coming to his rescue. But Hawkeye couldn't make out anything but what sounded like a single engine.

The noise dimmed slightly. The jeep must be on the straightaway on the far side of the mountain, heading for that last tight curve. Keeping his rifle pointed in front of him, Hawkeye rose to his feet. Cautiously, he peeked over the rim.

High was across the road from him, crouched on the hillside right at the bend in the road, about forty feet away. He must have climbed past the burning jeep as Hawkeye had suspected he would, but before he could approach the cliff, the sound of the other jeep had distracted him. High had taken position behind a boulder facing the road, with his rifle aimed toward the oncoming jeep. Obviously he meant to take out the driver. Or perhaps he intended to shoot out a tire, with the resultant blowout sending the entire jeep careening over the edge in another contrived accident.

Okay, crisis of conscience time. Long before he'd taken the Hippocratic Oath, Hawkeye had sworn never to harm another human being. But if he didn't act now, more innocent people would die at this maniac's hands. Hawkeye took a breath, then lifted the rifle, aiming at High's unprotected back. It seemed cruel, to shoot a man who was unaware of his danger. Hawkeye reminded himself of all the people this man had killed, about all the other people who were likely to die. He swallowed, and strengthened his resolve. Slowly he breathed out, steadying the rifle against his arm, and squeezed the trigger.

He hadn't expected the kick. The old rifle jammed into his shoulder so smartly, he nearly tumbled backwards off the rock. He flailed for balance, his two-handed grip on the gun making him doubt for a moment whether that was possible. Then he was steady again on his feet. He leaned against the side of the cliff for safety and for cover, and looked anxiously toward the hillside where he expected to see High's sprawled body. At that instant a bullet struck the ground just inches from his head.

Dirt sprayed into his face, temporarily blinding him. Hawkeye dropped to his knees, throwing an arm across his burning eyes. The rifle clattered to the stone ledge, but Hawkeye couldn't look for it. He sucked in breath as his eyes watered. Obviously his carefully aimed shot had missed. High was alive and shooting at him, and Hawkeye couldn't even see to shoot back. 

Dimly he heard the screech of brakes; the exchange of gunfire must have tipped off the driver. At least his miserable marksmanship had done that much good. The motor roared as the jeep rounded the corner, geared down and slowing. 

Still blind, Hawkeye stood up and hollered, "Hey, watch out! That guy's a killer!"

The jeep jerked back into gear. Drawing a jacket sleeve across his face, Hawkeye blotted his eyes enough to see. 

It was Klinger. Even with his weepy eyes, there was no mistaking that black-and-white checked outfit, the vivid scarf an absurd contrast to the jeep's humorless olive green. The watery image of High aimed his rifle at the windshield, but Klinger hit the gas and drove right for him. The jeep bounced wildly as it clambered over the rocks at the base of the hill, eating away the few yards between them. High dropped his rifle and dove toward the uphill side, his boots barely missing the jeep's oncoming grill. For the moment, he was down and unarmed.

Without stopping to think, Hawkeye clambered up the side of the cliff and sprinted across the road. He had to reach High before the man retrieved his rifle. He had started to scramble up the rocky slope behind the jeep when a new sound set his heart in his throat: a woman's scream. He looked up and found himself chilled.

Klinger's initial rush had turned against him. The jeep had reached the limit of its climbing ability; it had stalled just beyond the place where High had fallen. High was now dragging someone in helmet and fatigues out of the passenger side of the jeep. Hawkeye hadn't noticed her before; she must have been crouching down in her seat, a fine idea considering the amount of lead that was flying around. But High must have spotted her when the jeep went by, then grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her out. Klinger, fighting with the controls, was unable to help. The woman struggled, but High was too big for her. He spun her around and slapped her to his chest. As he did so, her helmet went flying, and her blond hair cascaded down. 

Hawkeye scrambled up the slope at his top speed. "_Margaret!" He was almost to the edge of the jeep. He would make it._

High grabbed a fistful of hair at the back of Margaret's neck, then jerked her head back so it was resting hard against his chest. With his right hand he whipped out a knife and held it to Margaret's throat. He glared at Hawkeye with menace in his eyes. "Back off!"

Hawkeye windmilled his arms to arrest his forward momentum. He was only five feet away, but it might as well be five miles. 

Klinger set the brake to keep the jeep from tumbling back down the hill, then hopped out of the driver's seat. He snatched up his rifle from where it rested in the back seat, cocking it with practiced efficiency.

"Raise that weapon," High bellowed, "and she dies."

Klinger froze with the gun halfway to his shoulder. "You can't win, Stranges," he growled. "Let her go."

For a moment Hawkeye didn't understand the comment, then the light dawned. "Strangers" was a word play on "Stranges," obviously High's real name. The man was vile in every way, but he did love his word games.

"No way," Stranges-alias-High replied. "Back off, both of you."

The gleaming edge of the knife was actually resting against Margaret's throat. Hawkeye could see her pulse fluttering just beneath it, beating double-quick in her otherwise frozen body. Her eyes moved toward him but he could read nothing in her expression -- no plea, no accusation, nothing -- only fear.

"I can't do that, Stranges," Klinger answered. He stood squarely with his saddle shoes braced against the tricky slope, hands ready to jerk the rifle to his shoulder at a moment's notice. Hawkeye felt that he had tumbled directly into the surreal; here was a man wearing a baby doll dress and earrings, facing down a soldier with a knife, both of them looking as grim as death.

"What you're gonna do," said Stranges, "is let me get to my jeep."

"Over your dead body," said Klinger.

Stranges pressed the knife against Margaret's skin. "I'll kill her."

"What kind of threat is that?" said Klinger. "You're gonna kill her anyway."

"Now, why would I kill somebody who was so helpful to me?" said Stranges.

Klinger's eyes flickered in confusion.

"What do you mean?" Hawkeye demanded.

"Major, huh?" Stranges had obviously noticed Margaret's rank insignia. "I bet this is the little lady who tipped me off that you were coming."

Hawkeye exchanged a startled look with Klinger, but the checkered soldier appeared just as bewildered as Hawkeye.

"It's funny, isn't it?" Stranges continued. "How you can be walking around minding your own business, but somebody in another room says your name, and all of a sudden you're listening." He tightened his grip on Margaret's hair. "I heard everything Keotunian said over the radio. I thought I could get by with taking you out, Doc. But it seems that it's in my best interest now to just disappear." He pulled back on Margaret's head, further exposing her throat. "This little lady is gonna be my safe conduct out of here."

Even while maintaining his grip, Stranges moved one of his fingers at the back of Margaret's neck. The movement was almost a caress, as if he was stroking her hair. Stranges looked over her head at Hawkeye, and smirked. Hawkeye's heart began pounding with a painful intensity.

Suddenly the crack of a rifle sounded to Hawkeye's left, and a patch of dust kicked up on the slope just beyond Stranges' right shoulder. Reflexively Hawkeye looked toward the noise.

Unnoticed, Radar had climbed up the side of the cliff where he and Hawkeye had been hiding. Despite his woozy condition, he'd had the presence of mind to bring the rifle. He had advanced a couple of feet into the road, to the left of the still-burning jeep. Seeing the situation, he'd taken aim, and fired.

But Radar discovered what Hawkeye had found out earlier; those old rifles kick. Even as Hawkeye turned his head, he saw Radar's body jerk from the impact. The clerk dropped the rifle and stumbled backwards, until he was at the very brink of the precipice. He stood there swaying, as if fighting the urge to pass out.

A grunt and shuffle recalled Hawkeye to his immediate situation. Margaret had not let herself be distracted by Radar's appearance. When Stranges/High looked toward the road with everybody else, he must have eased his grip on her momentarily. Margaret took the opportunity to drive her elbow into his solar plexus. His grunt as he bent forward was what had drawn Hawkeye's attention. Even as he watched, Margaret drove her elbow into Stranges' belly again. He didn't drop the knife, but he did loosen his grip on her hair, so she wriggled partway free. 

Before Stranges could grab her again, Hawkeye launched himself at him. His body slam wasn't strong, mostly because Hawkeye was tackling him uphill, but also because he was trying not to crush Margaret, who was busy trying to slip out of the way. Stranges fell backward under Hawkeye's charge, but his outraged expression showed that he'd by no means given up. He thrust at Hawkeye with the knife, but Hawkeye caught his wrist with his left hand and held it away, inches from his head. Stranges was frighteningly strong; it took all of Hawkeye's energy to match him. The loose scree shifted under them, so they started to roll downhill. Hawkeye fetched up against the jeep's rear tire with Stranges on top of him, the knife quivering in the air about eight inches from his neck.

Suddenly the barrel of a gun poked into the side of Stranges' head. Hawkeye felt his opponent grow still.

Klinger said in a deadly voice, "Drop it."

Stranges opened his grip, the wiry sinews of his wrist rippling against Hawkeye's palm. The knife clinked to the ground next to Hawkeye's ear. 

"Now," Klinger ordered, "get off the captain."

Hawkeye let go his grip as Stranges began to comply. Slowly the big man got to his feet. Klinger backed up a step, keeping the rifle aimed at his head.

Suddenly Stranges grabbed the rifle barrel, yanking it in an attempt to rip it out of Klinger's grasp. The gun discharged harmlessly over Stranges' shoulder. His attack pulled Klinger right off his feet, but Klinger refused to let go, even though Stranges tossed him around like a hairy duffel bag. For the first time Hawkeye caught a glimpse of Stranges' back. His shirt was torn in a ragged crease, with a line of red bleeding into the fabric. Apparently Hawkeye's shot had come closer to putting Stranges out of commission than he had thought. With the loss of blood, Stranges would be getting weaker, perhaps as quickly as a matter of seconds with all this fighting. It wouldn't take much for them to master him. Stranges must know that too, and it showed in his desperation.

Hawkeye scrambled to his knees, but before he could come to Klinger's aid, a rock smacked Stranges in the chin. The big man blinked, then dragged Klinger around some more. Hawkeye glanced over his shoulder in time to see Margaret sling another rock. The major had some arm on her. Her second stone hit the side of Stranges' head hard enough to snap it to the side.

The tactic was enough. Klinger found his feet at last, those ridiculous saddle shoes scrabbling for a purchase. He yanked the rifle free of Stranges' grasp while the taller man was staggered. Unable to aim in the close quarters, he immediately swung the butt end toward Stranges' head, cracking him in the skull.

Stranges stumbled backward along the side of the jeep. Klinger stood his ground, once again raising the rifle to his shoulder. Hawkeye pushed himself to his feet, bracing against the jeep. Before he could move, Stranges scrambled around the front end of the jeep and slithered down the slope. In a half dozen strides he had reached the road, all while Klinger was cocking and aiming his weapon. "Stranges, freeze!" Klinger bellowed.

Hawkeye's stomach fluttered. From his position beside Klinger, he could see all too well where Stranges was headed: straight towards Radar. Whether Stranges intended to use him as a hostage or simply throw him over the edge was something Hawkeye couldn't afford to find out. He launched himself down the slope in pursuit. 

Behind him, Klinger yelled, "Radar, move!" 

Stranges had almost reached Radar; no doubt the corporal was in Klinger's line of fire. Radar himself seemed unaware of his danger. He stood blinking and swaying at the edge of the cliff, the proceedings probably no more than a confusing blur to him without his glasses, never mind the mind-numbing effects of his concussion. Then Hawkeye spotted something else that Stranges may have seen: half a yard in front of Radar lay the rifle that he'd dropped. Stranges might be making for that. He was almost on top of Radar, running fast.

Hawkeye shouted, "Radar, get the gun!"

Radar dropped, reaching out his hand. Hawkeye was never quite sure what happened immediately afterwards. Stranges' body, stooping toward Radar and the rifle, blocked his view. Perhaps Radar's suddenly hunched body had tripped him. Perhaps Stranges had merely stumbled, and bounced off Radar's shoulder. In any case, Stranges tumbled over Radar's hunkered form. He actually flipped with the force of his momentum, head down and backwards towards the cliff. For an instant he seemed to hang there, limbs splayed, against the empty air. The next moment he vanished without a sound.

Hawkeye skidded to a stop next to Radar. The first thing he did was pull the dazed clerk a little farther from the edge. Crouching, he leaned out to look over the rim of the cliff.

It wasn't sheer, but it had been steep enough. Stranges' aerial launch had denied him the opportunity to grab at any handholds. Who knew how far down the slope he actually hit? His body was still rolling, but the bones in those flapping limbs were no longer in any sort of contiguous pieces. Stranges eventually came to rest against a large boulder near the base of the canyon. A shower of dirt and rocks rolled down after him, partly obscuring the uphill side of his body. Hawkeye felt that this was one time when he wouldn't need to check for a pulse. Nobody's head could be at that angle and have the person still be alive. Hawkeye reflected that, ironically, Stranges must have died of traumatic spondylolysis not too far removed from a hangman's fracture.

Radar said weakly beside him, "Here you go, Hawk."

Hawkeye looked back to find the woozy corporal pushing the rifle into his hands. In his impaired condition, Radar was doing his best to comply with Hawkeye's most recent order, in this case, to "get the gun." Hawkeye smiled and took it from him. "Thank you, Corporal."

Radar merely nodded, blinking in a vain attempt to clear his vision. The blood had mostly dried on his face, but a new line of crimson had broken out across the bridge of his nose. 

Hawkeye asked Radar quietly, "Are you all right?" 

Radar rubbed his shoulder as Margaret and Klinger came running up. "Somebody kicked me."

"I'm sorry about that. We'll take care of it soon."

Klinger halted a foot short of the edge and peered out. "Whe-ew! Looks like we don't have to worry about _this guy anymore."_

Margaret knelt beside Radar and Hawkeye. "Are you all right?" she asked anxiously.

"The corporal here has a concussion," Hawkeye said. "I'm fine."

Margaret unslung a medical bag from her shoulder; she must have fetched it from the jeep before following Klinger down the hill. Hastily she dug around inside. Hawkeye approved. Now that they had a moment, it was about time that they cleaned up Radar's face.

Klinger turned towards Hawkeye with a look of satisfaction. From his position on the ground, Hawkeye could see up the dress past the corporal's hairy knees -- an intimate view that he could have done without. Klinger slung his rifle back over his shoulder. "Captain, what do you want us to do about this guy?"

"We'll notify his unit about what happened. Radar said they're not far from here. Let them come and get him."

Klinger indicated the smoldering jeep. "We'll have to get past this thing."

Hawkeye glanced over his shoulder. The fire had consumed all the flammables on the interior of the jeep; black smoke rose from the ashes and the charred skin. "It didn't explode."

Klinger shrugged his shoulders. "Naw, gas tanks hardly ever explode, except in the movies. Back home in Toledo, me and my cousin Rabih used to --" He hesitated as Margaret, armed with a cloth she'd just soaked with alcohol, gave him a narrow look. "Never mind."

Hawkeye said, "Find something we can use as a tow line, and we'll use the other jeep to pull this one out of the way. And let's try to push some of those boulders over the edge, too. We don't want anyone to hit the same barricade that almost did Radar and me in."

Klinger saluted. "No sooner heard than done, sir!" He marched off smartly, skirt swaying on his narrow hips.

Hawkeye turned back just in time for Margaret to press the cold, wet cloth against the side of his face. His skin burned at the contact. "Ow!" He jerked his head away. "What are you doing?"

"You're bleeding, Doctor."

"I am?" Hawkeye noticed that the moist cloth in her hand had developed red smears. "How did that happen?"

"It looks like you've got some gravel in there," said Margaret. "Here, hold still." She reached around the back of his head to steady him, and happened to put her hand on the place where he'd hit the ground when the jeep overturned. Pain sliced through his skull. 

"Youch!" He batted her hand away, scooting backward. He held up his hands. "Just ... don't touch anything."

Margaret said with concern, "Did Stranges do that?"

"Do what?"

"You've got a lump back there the size of a lemon."

"Better to feel like one than to be one." Hawkeye prodded at the lump on his head gingerly. "I fell out of the jeep -- on my head, fortunately."

"Are you okay?" Margaret asked quickly.

"I'm fine." Hawkeye met her eyes. "Are _you okay?"_

Margaret hesitated, then looked away. "I'm fine, too." She was struggling for that unconcerned look that she adopted all too frequently, but this time the mask was wearing a little thin.

Hawkeye kept his eyes on her. "You're sure?"

Margaret seemed caught in a battle between ego and honesty. To her credit, honesty won out. "I'm ... all right, now. I wasn't hurt, just ... terrified."

Hawkeye said softly, "I think we all were."

"You didn't show it." Margaret met his eyes. "Thank you for coming to my rescue." Her soft smile looked genuine. 

Hawkeye felt suddenly uncomfortable. Attempting to lighten the mood, he slapped Radar on the shoulder, who jumped and seemed to wake up at the contact. "It wasn't me you should thank, but the Redoubtable Radar O'Reilly and his amazing Astigmatic Attack."

Radar hung his head. "Aw, c'mon, Hawkeye. Don't make fun."

"Make fun?" Hawkeye raised his brows. "Far from it. It was your shot that startled Stranges, allowing Major Houlihan to get free."

Radar peered up at him. "Startled who?"

"Stranges. You know, Sergeant High."

"Yeah, I saw that blond guy threatening you."

"Not to mention holding Major Houlihan hostage."

Radar squinted. "Major Houlihan was there?" 

Hawkeye paused. "I know you're concussed, Radar, but you have to remember Major Houlihan being there. You shot at Stranges to distract him."

Radar's eyes widened. "This Stranges guy was holding Major Houlihan?"

Hawkeye said, "Who did you _think_ he was holding?"

"Well, nobody. Honest, Hawkeye. I just saw some guy with blond hair yelling at you and Klinger. I couldn't hear because my ears were ringing, but I thought that he had a gun on you because you guys were so still. I thought you were in danger, so I ... tried to shoot him."

Margaret's eyes were huge. "You mean, you shot at Stranges trying to _hit_ him?" Her jaw dropped. "You lunatic, you could have hit _me_!"

"It wasn't my fault, Major, honest!" Radar looked close to tears. "I lost my glasses in the crash. I couldn't see nothing but a blur that far away, just blond hair and black hair and that's all, no kidding!"

Hawkeye ducked his head. True, the situation would have been appalling had Radar hit his target. Now that the crisis was over, however, his inclination was to laugh.

Of course, Margaret picked up on his struggle to hide his mirth. She slapped his arm. "This isn't funny, Captain!"

Hawkeye couldn't overcome his chuckle. "Major, relax. Radar didn't hit you, and he _did_ give us our chance to jump Stranges."

Margaret thrust her medical kit at him. "Here, _you clean him up. I don't trust myself to do it right now."_

Hawkeye took the bag, then noticed Klinger climbing back towards them around the end of the burnt jeep. He slid down the loose stone toward the road, regained his balance, then sauntered toward them with a huge coil of rope over his shoulder. Hawkeye smiled. "Where'd you find that?"

"Stranges' jeep." Klinger jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "It's parked a little way up the road." Klinger slid the rope off his shoulder. "What do you think of this? It feels a lot stronger than the usual stuff we see around camp. It should make a great tow line."

Hawkeye took the rope. Its strands were woven in a complicated interlocking weave. The texture and thickness exactly matched a piece of rope that he'd seen only one time before. He looked up to meet Margaret's startled eyes.

Klinger was pleased with himself. "Some fancy rope, huh? What is that, a rappelling rope?"

Hawkeye turned the coil around until he found the ends. One end was neatly sealed. The other had been cut off; the strands blossomed out in a frayed tassel.

Klinger said, "I bet the units in this area use it for climbing."

"Among other things," said Hawkeye.

Margaret covered her eyes.


	11. Small Family

**11. Small Family**

Hawkeye couldn't remember spending a finer evening in the officer's club. BJ had started out looking tired, but he seemed to get more lively every half hour. The sling was off his arm; three small bandages on the fingers of his right hand were the only physical reminders of his recent adventure.

They were a fairly ratty-looking crew, overall. The side of Hawkeye's face was raw where the dirt sprayed from Stranges' close-hitting bullet had driven itself in, although his cuts had scabbed over in the two days since the attack. Radar sported a black eye and a thick piece of tape over the bridge of his nose; the corporal squinted at them through his backup glasses. His regular ones were probably at the bottom of the canyon, but none of the folks who'd recovered Stranges' body had reported finding any glasses down there, not that they'd particularly been looking. Margaret had not been physically hurt, but the emotional strain showed in her unusually wan complexion. Klinger on the other hand looked stunning. He'd chosen to attend this informal gathering wearing a low-shouldered purple satin gown topped with a rhinestone tiara. Hawkeye couldn't help glancing at him curiously sometimes as the soldier tossed down a shot, holding the stubby glass expertly despite his white long-sleeved evening gloves.

They had pulled a couple of tables together to accommodate their party. Potter was there, of course, as well as Hung Pak. The chief of police had very graciously delivered BJ to the camp personally earlier that evening, and stayed to fill them in on the latest details of the case. Bigelow and Wilson hovered in chairs just beyond each of Hawkeye's shoulders, while in the tables behind them everyone else listened, even though some of them pretended not to. BJ's release celebration had been going on for over an hour now, with everyone's various suppositions and revelations blending into the general buzz of the room.

Suddenly BJ waved at the door. Hawkeye turned around to look. 

Father Mulcahy was pushing his way through the throng, nodding or waving cheerily at those he passed. Flanking him, keeping his head down and looking even more nervous than usual, was Frank Burns. Hawkeye wouldn't have known that they were together, except that Mulcahy snagged Burns' elbow at one point to guide him closer to their table.

Mulcahy reached them at last and tipped his hat. "Good evening, all! How is everyone tonight?"

BJ beamed. "Fantastic, Father! Why don't you pull up a chair?"

"I'd love to. But first, someone here has something that he'd like to say to you." Mulcahy nudged a reluctant Frank forward to face the crowd.

Frank bobbed on his toes and thrust his hands in his pockets. His beady gaze darted from the table to the expectant faces around it to the floor. "Uh, somebody in camp ... suggested that I might ... sort of, possibly, want to ... apologize."

Hawkeye felt a grin spread over his face. "To anyone in particular, Frank?"

BJ's smile was broad. "Or just to the universe in general?"

Hawkeye bobbed his eyebrows at BJ and said in his Groucho Marx voice, "The universe in general has been waiting for an apology about Frank Burns for ages."

Frank's fidgeting increased. "Well, as a matter of fact --" He looked away, only to meet Father Mulcahy's placid expression, urging him on. Frank looked back toward BJ. "The truth is, I thought I might apologize to you, Captain. Maybe. In a way."

BJ shot Hawkeye a knowing glance. He'd heard all about the comments Frank had made about him in his absence. "What, maybe, might you want to say to me if you did, in fact, apologize, theoretically?"

BJ's leg pulling went right over Burns' head. In fact, Frank even relaxed a little in response to BJ's obfuscation. "Well, perhaps I leaped a little too quickly to the conclusion that you were guilty. Although it was completely understandable, based on the evidence that was available at the time. Faced with the facts that I was faced with, I believe that anyone else in my shoes, or in shoes closely resembling mine, would have concluded what I naturally concluded, rationally and logically -- that you were, in fact, a murderer."

"Serial murderer," Hawkeye put in. BJ shot him a mock glare.

"Serial murderer," said Frank. "I mean, you have to admit that things did look a little, uh, condemning in terms of your behavior, guiltwise. I for one am not a believer in blind faith -- except during officially sanctioned occasions such as those that Father Mulcahy conducts where disbelief would be frankly wrong. Not so regarding a person's character! No-sir-ee, Bub, except for those cases where blind faith is completely acceptable, I always find it totally unacceptable. In fact, if you're ever arrested again under similar circumstances, I'm sure that I'd come to the same conclusion all over again."

BJ listened to this prattle with seeming good grace, although others at the table weren't so restrained. Potter was biting his cheeks not to smile, and Radar was actually giggling into his hand. Klinger rolled his eyes, while Margaret tried to act offended -- although Hawkeye thought he could detect a suppressed smile there, too. 

BJ's eyes twinkled. "Okay, Frank, let me get this straight. What you seem to be saying is -- and correct me if I'm wrong -- that if you said or did anything wrong in any way concerning me, at any time in the past or future, as far-fetched as such a notion might be, then you might consider being sorry for it."

Frank was immune to irony. "That's right, that's exactly what I was saying."

BJ lifted his drink. "In that case, if you ever were to offer an apology, I might consider accepting it."

Frank wasn't so pleased with BJ's last statement. He furrowed his brows, trying to decide whether he agreed with it or not. Finally he said, "I did bring your stuff back from the storage room, didn't I?"

BJ saluted drunkenly. "You did indeed, and I'm eternally grateful."

Frank stared at him. "Well, good."

Potter leaned an elbow on the table, giving himself over entirely to amusement. He sent up a languid puff from his cigar. "So, Major, do you have any other apologies to offer that are equally sincere?"

"Um, yes." Frank's eyes darted toward Father Mulcahy, then back to the table. "Captain Pierce --"

"Yes?" Hawkeye drawled, picking up his drink.

"Regarding my failure to send anyone after you that afternoon -- well, not really failure, but my executive decision to not reinforce unauthorized behavior with authorized reinforcements -- I want you to understand that no one could possibly have predicted that anything like what happened could ever possibly have happened -- except for Major Houlihan, who did in fact guess it, but in a completely unpredictable way. There's no reasonable basis for anyone to assume that I could ever be held accountable for such unpredictacality actually occurring."

Hawkeye waved him away. "That's all right, Frank. No one expected that."

"I mean, it wasn't my intention that Major Houlihan and Corporal Klinger would also unauthorizably leave and place themselves in danger -- danger that in no way could have been foreseen by anyone operating from a sound basis of thought."

"No one's blaming you," said Margaret.

"See," Frank continued, "I didn't really mean to have let you died. Almost died. Almost to have let you died, although you didn't really. And Corporal O'Reilly, too. It was an accident! Well, murder is no accident, but then you didn't get killed anyway, not that it would have been my fault even if you had. So all's well that end's well, don't you think?" He emitted one of his nervous cackles that sounded like a whinny.

Hawkeye twirled his drink against the light. "Frank, that is the most heart-warming apology that I have ever heard in my entire life."

Frank's face went slack. "It is?"

"Uh huh. And just to show you how much it means to me, I'm going to reveal something to you that I never thought I would." Hawkeye met his eyes. "Tonight, when you go to bed..?"

Frank's eyes grew round. "Yes?" 

"Check your sheets first. There might be a rat in there."

Frank's voice hit a new high note. "_A dead rat?_"

"Well, unless there's been some divine intervention, it ought to be. It was dead when I put it in."

BJ's shoulders were shaking; Radar snickered and slid down in his chair. 

Margaret sat up straight and put both her hands on the table. "Captain! You didn't really put a dead rat in his bed, did you?"

Hawkeye raised his drink, enjoying the commotion he was causing. "You're right, Major. I didn't." He took a sip. "I just held the sheet up. The rat definitely crawled in under its own power, although it died pretty quickly afterwards. Frank, you really ought to consider improving your foot care."

Frank's face went scarlet. He balled his fists. "You ... you --"

"Me, me?" mocked Hawkeye. "What, are you seeing double? Or perhaps we're starting vocal lessons?"

Frank hollered, "I hope you take a few lessons from that dead rat!"

"Major," said Mulcahy gently. "Remember your resolution."

"What resolution?" Frank shouted.

Mulcahy raised his brows. "You remember ..."

"Oh." Frank jerked his uniform straight in an effort to regain control. "Well, in token of my good faith --"

BJ burst out laughing.

"-- I'm going to do a good deed. For no reason at all! Just because I'm _nice!" Frank yelled into BJ's ear._

"What's the good deed?" Potter asked.

"Well, I how am I supposed to know?" Frank seemed honestly puzzled. "Father Mulcahy wouldn't tell me." 

Hawkeye was getting bored. "Hey, Frank. You want to do a good deed?"

Frank fiddled with his buttons. "Yes."

"Then _blow." Hawkeye waved toward the door. "Go resuscitate a rat or something."_

Frank leaned down to shout in his ear. "Just you see if I ever fail to not save _your life again!" He shouldered his way through the crowd and banged out the door._

Potter looked at Mulcahy curiously. "He's really going to do a good deed?" he asked the priest.

Mulcahy removed his hat. "I thought that it might have more of an effect if I asked Major Burns to come up with a good deed on his own."

BJ shook his head. "That's like asking an arsonist to come up with a particularly good flame retardant." 

"Captain," Margaret remonstrated. "I'm sure that Major Burns is quite sincere. After all, he did voluntarily decide to atone for something that no one here asked him to."

"That's true," said Hawkeye. "The only problem is that Frank's idea of a good deed would be to have Radar reorganize all the patient files in alphabetical order according to the type of wounds they received."

"I hope not," said Radar, rather blearily after his second beer. "I can't spell most of that stuff, even when I do use the alphabet."

Hawkeye said to BJ, "That explains all the hieroglyphics I've been seeing in the files."

"Really?" said BJ. "I thought that was just your lousy handwriting."

Potter pushed out a chair with his foot. "Take a load off, Padre. Chief Pak was just giving us the latest low-down on the police investigation."

"Why, thank you. I would very much like to hear that." Mulcahy tossed his hat onto the table and pulled the chair around. "I understand that you brought Private Panatela in for questioning this morning?"

"Yes," Chief Pak answered. "After Private Stranges attacked your party two days ago, it became important to know how deeply Private Panatela was involved in these activities. We did not locate him until today, but we did search his quarters yesterday. We found a note addressed to him from Lieutenant Carlyle, asking him to meet her at `the usual place' at oh-two-hundred hours that morning -- which turned out to be the morning she was murdered."

Bigelow jumped in, having heard the story from Pak earlier. "She wrote that it was urgent that she see him, and to _not_ tell Tall, that is, Private Stranges, about it."

"Unfortunately," continued Pak, "Private Stranges saw the note and read it in his roommate's absence -- the `Three Strangers' were billeted together. Fingerprints proved that it was Lieutenant Carlyle who had stolen the supplies. She had apparently turned these over to Panatela, believing that Panatela was distributing them to needy local villagers." 

Hawkeye mumbled to BJ, "Not that anyone else here was ever guilty of doing the same thing."

Potter perked up. "What was that, Pierce?"

Hawkeye paused; he hadn't expected to be overheard among all the side conversations. Potter had never heard about Captain Tuttle, Hawkeye's fictional do-gooder that had occasionally redirected some of the MASH's inventory to worthy causes before his grisly fictional death. Hawkeye had been hoping to keep someone like him in reserve for future opportunities, but the colonel's alertness had put him on the spot. Fortunately, a slightly sauced Radar came to his rescue.

"Colonel Blake did that," said Radar. "He ordered extra supplies and gave them to Nurse Cratty."

"Colonel Blake," said Margaret, "had the advantage of _ordering extra supplies. Lieutenant Carlyle simply stole them." From the hardness of her voice, Hawkeye suspected that Margaret was still irritated at the lieutenant for putting a kink in her well-run operation -- never mind that the poor girl had paid for her lapse of judgment with her life._

"At least she meant well," said BJ, in Carlyle's defense.

"I really think she did," said Bigelow. "She thought she was helping hurt villagers and orphans. Panatela's first gift to her, the bracelet, was nice, but it wasn't outrageous. But when Panatela gave her the jeweled ring, Ellie knew that there was no way he could afford something like that unless he'd been dealing on the black market. She'd probably heard enough rumors by then about the Three Strangers to make her suspicious. So she wrote her note to him later that day, probably intending to confront him about it."

"That's why she was so upset," Gwen Wilson interjected. "She'd only gotten the ring the night before, when she'd `borrowed' the jeep to meet Danny, probably to deliver more supplies to him. But the more she thought about it afterwards, the more upset she became. Still, she wanted to discuss it privately with him first. Even though she knew Tall and Handsome, she probably thought a lot less of them than she did of Danny."

"That's pretty likely," said Hawkeye. "The first time I met Private Stranges -- Sergeant High -- I had an uneasy feeling about him. I thought I was only picking up his nervousness about being AWOL. I had no idea that he'd just committed a murder, and was intending to commit another."

"Several more," corrected Margaret.

"One more that day," said Hawkeye.

"The sad thing is," Gwen said, "that Stranges saw this note before Danny did. He didn't see it as Ellie's request for a private meeting about their relationship. When Stranges read, `Don't tell Tall,' he probably thought that she'd gotten cold feet, and was planning to turn him in."

Pak said, "That sounds exactly right. Stranges would have seen in the note not only an end to a steady source of supplies, but also a threat to his freedom. We believe that he came to the MASH that night to confront her. He must have known from Panatela that their `usual place' was behind the motor pool. He met her there, realized that she had discovered the scam, murdered her, then strung up her body with his own rope."

Mulcahy was listening with a furrowed brow. "You seem to know an awful lot about these people's dealings."

"We've been piecing it together for the last hour," said BJ. "Chief Pak was busy collecting additional evidence yesterday, so he could arrest Panatela for his black market activities." BJ's smile turned sour. "We already know that Pak didn't have any reason to hold him for murder."

"It was your lousy blood type that got you into so much trouble," said Hawkeye. "B positive. Why didn't you sign up for O negative while you had the chance?"

BJ looked at him. "You know, there's a lesson in my blood type."

Hawkeye suddenly got the pun. "What, `be positive?'"

BJ smiled and nodded.

Mulcahy said, "So, Chief Pak, you arrested Private Panatela this morning, when he came in from maneuvers?"

"Actually, we only brought him in for questioning," said Pak. "It turns out that Private Panatela knew nothing about the murders. When he found out about Lieutenant Carlyle's death, he became quite distressed. He made a full confession about his share of the black market scheme. In his view, more than half the material was going to the local villagers. In fact, Stranges and Randall took most of these goods and sold them themselves. Panatela never realized how few of the drugs ever reached the people he thought he was helping. He knew that his companions sold some of the supplies, but thought that he was entitled to a small reward after doing so much good."

"He was the original ignorant stooge," said Bigelow.

Margaret said, "Now I see why the other soldiers called him `Dumb.'"

"He doesn't exactly shine," said Mulcahy. "Still, it is heartening to hear that neither Lieutenant Carlyle nor Private Panatela was acting solely out of personal greed."

"Lieutenant Carlyle's actions _could_ have led to numerous deaths here," said Margaret, "if her thefts hadn't been discovered in time for us to replenish our stock."

"Unfortunately, Private Stranges' actions were more reprehensible still," said Pak sadly. "We have learned, by inquiring among the villagers, that Stranges would often take medicine to a village in need. He would approach some young lady and offer to sell her the medicines -- in exchange for her services."

Margaret slammed down her hands on the table. "That's the lowest thing I've ever heard -- that, that -- slime bucket!" Her eyes blazed.

Hawkeye appreciated how she felt. He set down his glass. The sudden unsettled feeling in his stomach made him not want to drink any more. Everyone else around the table looked solemn, except for Radar, who looked scared.

"Now, Corporal Randall was aware of this," Pak continued. "He complained of Stranges' behavior to other members of his unit, but he could not convince Stranges to change his ways. Because both men are now dead, we can only speculate about what happened between them at the end. It is my belief that Stranges approached a girl who would not yield to him, even out of fear or duty to her family. Enraged by her resistance, he killed her and then fled, as witnessed by Mrs. Han. In some way, Randall found out about the murder. Perhaps he was on the grounds at the time; perhaps someone else told him. It is a funny thing about a person's conscience -- the things that each person can permit themselves to overlook. While Randall could apparently tolerate a systematic method of rape, he could not condone the killing. He may have threatened Stranges in some way, perhaps to expose him, or to drop him from their black market ring.

"The day after the girl's murder, Thursday, their squad was involved in a reconnaissance maneuver. Stranges was the last to return, saying that the Chinese had closed in before Randall could make it out. His story was that the rope they had used to rappel down the ridge broke, making it impossible for Randall to escape. In retrospect, it is more likely that Stranges abandoned Randall to the Chinese, or perhaps even cut the rope himself. However, another squad in the area was able to get Randall out before he was killed. In my opinion, Stranges knew that he must silence Randall to prevent him from reporting this attempt on his life. Stranges may have planned to come to the MASH and remove his rival, even before he saw Lieutenant Carlyle's note to Private Panatela. At the time, he must have felt that everyone had turned against him, and his actions reflect his desperation. But his greed was stronger still. Panatela has identified a jeweled ring we found hidden among Private Stranges' effects as the one he bought for Lieutenant Carlyle. Even after murdering her, Stranges could not resist taking this valuable piece of jewelry, even though he must have known that it would incriminate him if it was found before he could sell it."

Pak's statement had stunned the table into silence. BJ looked slightly sick. Klinger sat there with stark anger on his face, his eyes smoldering in vivid contrast to the shiny satin gown. 

Margaret slowly shook her head. "I can't believe how ... depraved that animal was. It's just ... unbelievable."

Pak's eyes glistened sadly behind his glasses. "Unfortunately, Major Houlihan, Stranges is not unique. All too often we see soldiers take advantage of the hardships of war to let loose their carnal urges."

Colonel Potter sighed heavily. "I'm sorry to agree with you, Chief. The atrocities of war are bad enough without the criminals and the profiteers trying to cash in on their share of the action. It's a sad fact of war that the people who often suffer the most are the innocent bystanders."

"You are too correct, Colonel," said Pak. "I have spent many years in this world, and I have seen many crimes. To you, such actions are unthinkable. To me, they are only too common. Unfortunately, stories such as this have led my people to develop prejudices of our own. You were upset over the arrest of your Captain Hunnicutt. You saw in him a kind man, perhaps a brave man, a doctor. I saw a foreigner to my country who may have acted in the cruelest way toward its citizens, as had so many others before him. I have already apologized to Captain Hunnicutt, but I will tell you all now: I am happy to learn that so many of you share my feelings, and that not all Americans are so foul as those who give your people this evil name."

"I hope we can do a bit better than `not so foul,'" said Potter. 

Pak raised his hand. "Of course. Please forgive me. I have said that our prejudices run deep. I see now that many of you are willing to die for your beliefs, and to serve the cause of justice -- the same justice and beliefs that I myself follow."

"Amen to that," said Potter. "We have some jim-dandy people here. I hope you'll get to see more of that over time."

"We aren't all animals," said Margaret strongly.

"Yes," said Hawkeye. "Even BJ isn't that bad, once you get to know him."

BJ gave Hawkeye a dirty look.

"I believe that, Doctor," said Pak. "Please accept my apologies once again for the delay in releasing you. We needed to present our additional evidence in order to clear you. As some of you heard earlier, Mrs. Han was no longer certain about her identification after she saw Stranges' body. She felt that she could not positively swear which one of you she had seen that night. I am sorry to say it, but one tall, blond American looks very like another, to people who have seen very few."

"I understand, Chief." BJ rubbed his forearm. "I just wish that you could have discovered who the real culprit was before you plucked my arm half bare."

"Count your blessings, Beej," said Hawkeye. "You could have been on the cliff with Radar and me."

"Ooh, I didn't like that cliff part," said Radar. "I know you said sir that it was almost impossible to fall off the edge, but look what happened to Stranges and he wasn't even trying to fall, plus he didn't lose his glasses which turns out to be a good thing because who knows how scared I woulda been if I'd been able to see what was really going on."

Margaret said sharply, "You would have seen enough to not shoot at me!"

Radar turned pale. "Oh, no, m'am, I would never have shot in your direction because I think I would have gotten woozy on that ledge on the cliff and fallen right off, if I'd been able to see how far down it was."

"Then I'm glad you lost your glasses," said Hawkeye. "We wouldn't have wanted you to fall off the cliff -- would we, Major?"

Margaret spun her glass around on the table. 

"Major?" Hawkeye prompted.

Margaret gave him a narrow look. "I'm thinking about it."

Radar huddled in his chair. "I'm glad there isn't a cliff right here."

"Nonsense." Hawkeye reached over to clap the corporal's shoulder, giving Margaret a significant look. "I'm sure that, underneath it all, the Major is grateful for your help." 

Margaret only glared at him, refraining from comment.

BJ said, "Well, even if she isn't, I'm certainly grateful for _her help. Yours too, Radar, and Klinger especially, for finding that bracelet." The enlisted men beamed. BJ turned toward the police officer. "No offense, Chief Pak, but if it wasn't for my friends here, I'm not sure whether or not I'd still be in prison."_

"Your case had not yet come to trial," said Pak. "I am certain that we would have learned more about these Three Strangers before that came to pass."

"I have to agree with you there," said Potter. "The scales of justice sometimes take a while to balance, Hunnicutt. However, I have to believe that the system is generally sound. What you ran into, Captain, was a bad case of timing, with the unit being away for those few days, preventing Pak's people from getting the full picture."

"Not to mention a case of bad identification," said Hawkeye. "BJ and I barely escaped from that village with our lives."

"Thanks to your crazy driving."

"And your running interference."

BJ shook his head. "So, Hawkeye, how many times does this make that you've saved my life since I came to Korea?"

"Seventeen and three-quarters, but who's counting?"

Radar blinked back to awareness. "What's the three-quarters one?"

BJ held up his bandaged hand. "I had to dock him a few points when I didn't escape personal injury."

"Klinger, on the other hand, gets extra bonus points," said Hawkeye. "Not only did he personally save all of our necks, but he did it wearing saddle shoes."

"There are times," said Klinger, "when it's just more practical to wear a sensible heel."

Hawkeye said, "You haven't seen anything, Beej, until you've witnessed hand-to-hand combat with some guy wearing a dress."

"Actually," said Klinger, "I did feel very free, movement-wise."

BJ scrubbed his neck. "I think that was more information than I needed to know."

"Me, too," said Margaret. "All kidding aside, Colonel, I think that Corporal Klinger should be recognized for his contributions to this case. And please don't say anything," she added, as the rest of the table gawked at her. "I feel foolish enough already for suggesting it."

"Corporal Klinger, well." Colonel Potter harrumphed. Hawkeye grinned at BJ, enjoying the moment. The old soldier looked across to where Klinger sat, grinning broadly, his eyes sparkling enough to rival his rhinestone tiara. The colonel cleared his throat again. "So, Corporal..."

"Yes, Colonel?" said Klinger brightly.

"What, uh..." Potter fiddled with his empty glass. "What kind of recognition would you prefer?"

Radar mumbled out of the side of his mouth, "More pay."

"Tokyo," Hawkeye whispered across to him. "Three days."

"Four," said BJ. "I'll give you some cash."

Klinger pondered their suggestions with a solemn intensity that was comical considering his outfit. At last he lifted his eyes. "Colonel Potter, there's one thing that I want more than anything else."

Potter sighed. "Klinger, I can't get you a Section 8 discharge."

Klinger looked honestly surprised. "Oh, no, sir, I wasn't going to ask for that. I mean, I woulda asked if I'd thought it was possible, but I didn't think it was, so I didn't."

BJ asked, "So what _do_ you want?"

Klinger faced him with glittering eyes. "A fashion show!"

Margaret sat up. "What?"

"I can see it now." Klinger's hand swept out, making Margaret and Hung Pak duck out of the way. "A long runway, lights, music -- me, in the latest fashions, parading out to the applause of my colleagues."

Hawkeye was unsuccessfully fighting the urge to laugh. "What if your colleagues don't applaud?"

"They will," said Klinger enthusiastically, "if they're under the direct orders of their commanding officer to give my outfits the recognition they deserve!" 

Colonel Potter's face was twisted with reluctance. "You're sure about this, Klinger? Wouldn't you like something more along the lines of, say, a three-day pass?"

"The only lines that I care about are _these_." Klinger leaped to his feet, sweeping his hand down the side of his gown. "Look at this cut. The style, the flair. In every way, it's perfect!" He held his chin high.

Margaret held her head. "I think I'm going to be sick."

Potter relented. "All right, Klinger, you can have your fashion show. Radar, can you handle the logistics?"

Radar murmured, "Just so long as I don't have to handle any of the dresses."

Hung Pak stared with amazement. He leaned closer to Potter. "Colonel, is this quite appropriate?"

Potter waved him off. "We'll bill it as an entertainment for the men."

"_And women," Klinger interrupted, still standing tall. "My creations can bridge the often tragic gap between the genders."_

Margaret growled, "Oh, go bridge the gap in your mouth, Corporal."

BJ chuckled. "Major, this was your idea."

Margaret waved her hand at the hairy nymph beside her. "Yeah, well, who would have thought ..." She lost steam, then subsided onto the table. "Never mind."

Hawkeye said to Potter, "You're sure you don't want to give him that Section 8?"

Potter said, "It would make life a lot simpler, wouldn't it?"

"But not nearly so interesting," said BJ.

"All right," said Hawkeye, raising his glass. "Here's to Klinger, the best-dressed corporal ever to drive his jeep full-tilt at a maniac!"

"And to Hawkeye," responded BJ, holding his glass high. "The best maniac ever to tilt out of his jeep and land right on his crooked little head."

Margaret clicked her tongue. "Don't be ridiculous."

"And to Margaret!" cried Hawkeye. "The best major ever to wrestle with one maniac while being saved by two others -- or should I say, three?"

Radar was uncertain about all this toasting. "Just leave me out of this, Hawkeye, okay?"

"To Radar!" cried Father Mulcahy, getting into the spirit. "The bravest soul ever to stand up to adversity that he couldn't even see."

"I can see some adversity coming your way if you all don't settle down," said Potter, apparently noticing how tight-lipped Margaret was becoming.

"To all of you," announced BJ. "For your efforts at finding out the truth in order to set me free. I thank you, and my wife thanks you. I'll never forget it."

"Hear, hear!" called Father Mulcahy. At last the group clinked their glasses, and everyone tossed back a belt.

Hung Pak pushed back his chair and rose. "I, too, wish to thank you all for your graciousness in handling this misunderstanding. I hope that we can work effectively together in the future."

"I'm sure we will, Chief," said Potter. "Please feel free to drop by any time."

Pak cast a dubious look at Klinger, now slightly bombed and smug with it. "I may look in now and then, if my duties permit."

Hawkeye leaned an elbow on the table, feeling mellow. "Oh, come on, Chief. Don't be frightened off just because we're a bunch of maniacs. After all, we're _nice maniacs."_

"Speak for yourself," said Margaret.

"I meant, we're all nice except for Major Houlihan," corrected Hawkeye. "She's tough!"

Margaret swelled with indignation. "You --!" She flung her empty glass at Hawkeye, who barely ducked out of the way in time.

Hung Pak looked concerned. "I did not mean to start an argument."

"That argument's been going on from Day One," said Potter mildly.

"Besides," said BJ, "we're not really arguing."

Radar looked worried as Hawkeye peeked through his hands, wondering if it was safe to sit up. Radar said, "That looked like a pretty convincing argument to me."

"Nope," said Potter decisively. "We're all good friends here."

"We're more than that, Colonel," said BJ. "We're family."

"Family!" Margaret snapped. "You mean this ... this --"

BJ put one arm around Hawkeye and another around Radar, who were sitting closest to him. "I mean these people right here. Finest kind -- right, Hawk?"

Hawkeye felt all the previous week's tension melt away in the warmth of BJ's happiness. He grinned. "Right, Beej."

Klinger's eyes misted. "Captain Hunnicutt, that was beautiful!" He dabbed at his eye with his glove.

Margaret looked revolted. "Now I'm _really_ going to be ill."

"You see how it goes," Potter said to Pak. "Drop in any time. We'd always love to see you."

_The End_


End file.
